


Heat is Good for Your Health

by dinosaurwars



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alpha Castiel (Supernatural), Alpha Castiel/Omega Dean Winchester, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, M/M, Omega Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-28
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:36:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 25,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24417487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dinosaurwars/pseuds/dinosaurwars
Summary: Dean has never been very graceful about accepting help. But years of heat suppressant overuse are taking their toll, and treatment isn’t cheap. Sam presents a solution in the form of handsome alpha Castiel Novak.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 84
Kudos: 634





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks everyone for reading!

Sam made it to the hospital in about fifteen minutes. Pretty impressive, considering that Dean knew for a fact that his office--did interns have offices?--was a solid thirty minutes away. He appeared in the doorway sweating and panting, looking like he’d been chased down by a gang. Dean grinned at him.

“Thanks for coming, Sammy.” He was comfortably drowsy, propped up on pillows the nurse had expertly arranged--although he didn’t really care for the gown. Or the bracelet. He waved a hand around. “Look at this sweet room they got me.”

Sam moved to stand by the bed. “What happened? Your boss said you collapsed at the site. And you had a seizure?”

Dean grinned dopily. “I don’t think it’s good, Sammy. I don’t think it’s good at all.” He patted Sam’s hand. “But let’s wait til the good doctor tells us what’s up.”

A nurse came to the door and asked for Dean Winchester.

“Right here,” said Dean, raising a hand. “Ready for takeoff.”

The nurse rolled his eyes a little bit. He looked at Sam. “You’re the brother?”

Sam nodded.

“We’ve got him on some sedatives, in case you were wondering why he’s acting like this.”

Sam shrugged. “Honestly, he always acts like this.”

The nurse chuckled and started to take Dean’s blood pressure. “You just did this,” whined Dean.

“And we’re doing it every fifteen minutes, for right now.” He had a collection of tubes and a needle. “And now we’re taking blood.”

Dean huffed and looked away, his druggy complacency entirely gone. Sam shrugged in sympathy. When the nurse was gone, Sam took a seat in the chair by the bed. “So,” he said. “You kind of implied you have a theory…?”

Dean leaned back and closed his eyes. “Yeah. It’s the suppressants. It’s got to be. It’s a real bummer.”

Sam pressed his lips together for a moment, then spoke in a hushed, angry. “I told you not to--”

“We don’t need to have that discussion again, Sammy.”

Sam opened his mouth, then closed it and nodded. “Right. Yeah, I guess not.”

“Anyway,” said Dean, “I’m pretty sure I’m paying the price now. Feel free to say I told you so.”

“I’m not going to say that.”

“Of course you aren’t. You’re a good kid, Sammy.” His speech was drowsy. He reached out to pat Sam’s hand but his arm fell limply to the bed. Sam looked at his face; he was asleep. Sam leaned back and waited for the doctor.

***

The doctor didn’t make it in until the next morning, when he arrived at nine a.m. Sam was there. He’d brought Dean coffee (that the nurse said he couldn’t drink, but it smelled nice) and doughnuts (the nurse said Dean could only have one). The doctor’s name was Ahuja; Sam had googled how to pronounce it. He was tall and graying and came into the room looking like he was ready for a fight. He came in and planted himself at the foot of Dean’s bed. Sam sat in the recliner.

“Your blood provided a lot of useful information, Mr. Winchester. I ran some preliminary tests, and we’ll also get a full panel. But from what we can tell already, your body is in distress. I’m particularly concerned about your kidneys.”

“My kidneys?”

“It seems that they’re under-functioning. Have you had any low back pain, any trouble or discomfort urinating?”

Dean shook his head; the doctor made a note on his clipboard. “That’s good news, at least.”

“‘At least’? You’re kind of freaking me out here, Doc.” Dean had forgotten how to pronounce “Ahuja.”

The doctor crossed his arms, his clipboard tucked under his left elbow. “I’m sorry to alarm you. I’ll answer any questions you may have.” He took off his glasses and rubbed at his forehead like he was getting a headache. “Unfortunately, I have some serious concerns about your health, Mr. Winchester. How long have you been on heat suppressants?”

Dean sighed. Fuck. “Um, huh. I guess”--Dean was dragging it out, he knew the reaction was going to be bad--“probably about twelve years, I think? I was thirteen when I got my first heat, so...yeah, twelve years.”

The doctor looked like someone had thrown a drink in his face. Dean winced. It was a moment before he spoke again.

“And...how many heats, in that time?”

“Oh.” Dean swallowed. “No heats. None of those.”

The other man's face went a little tight, like he was trying to rein in some kind of outburst. He took a breath. “So, just allow me--if I understand correctly--you have been on heat suppressants for an unbroken span of twelve years?”

Dean nodded. “Yep.” He popped the “p” defiantly.

Sam sighed. Dr. Ahuja looked at his clipboard and flipped some pages around. Dean suspected he was buying time. And Dean knew what the next question was going to be.

“And in that time, Mr. Winchester--”

Dean held up a hand. “Just Dean, please. Sorry, should've said so earlier. But yeah, call me Dean.”

“Dean. In that time, have you steadily used prescription, FDA-approved suppressants?”

“Ah...for the first, say, nine years? Yes. Absolutely. But more recently? No.”

“So, for the past four years?”

“Yeah, huh. I guess it has been four years.”

Dr. Ahuja very, very worried. “This is--almost completely unheard of.” The doctor frowned, deeply. Dean’s ears were burning.

Sam opened his mouth. “I--”

Dean shot him a look. He closed his mouth so hard his teeth clicked.

Dr. Ahuja made some more notes on his clipboard. He took a breath. “Alright, Mr. Win--Dean. We’re going to need some more bloodwork. And I know you were hoping to be released today, but that is impossible. We’ve switched you over to medical-grade suppressants, but I need to consult some colleagues. We’ll keep you hydrated and fed, and we’ll keep a close eye on your vitals.”

Dean nodded and started to say something--something like “thanks, Doc” or “sorry to be so irresponsible with my health, Sammy”--but he couldn’t talk, and then suddenly he couldn’t see anything, and then he wasn’t conscious at all.

***

He woke up to the concerned, dignified face of Dr. Ahuja.

“Dean? Dean, take some deep breaths.”

Dr. Ahuja had his stethoscope out-- _very fancy_ , Dean thought--and he moved it around Dean’s chest. Dean took even breaths and looked for Sam.

“I’m afraid I had to ask your brother to step out,” said Dr. Ahuja, pushing his stethoscope into one of the large pockets on his white coat. “You had us very worried.”

Dr. Ahuja slowly adjusted the bed so Dean was sitting up, and a nurse handed him a paper cup of water.

“Just sip it,” said Dr. Ahuja. _“Slowly._ I’ll go get Sam.”

Dean focused on taking minute sips of water. He felt a little foggy, but seemed fine other than that. Sammy came rushing in, practically wringing his hands. “Dean! Jesus Dean, are you okay? How do you feel?”

Dean crumpled the empty cup and rolled his eyes. Sammy and his histrionics. “Mostly okay. You shouldn’t worry so much.”

Sam snorted. “Yeah, I think I worry just the right amount, thanks.” He ran a hand through his hair. “They think you had another seizure.” He squinted at Dean. “Are you’re _sure_ you’re okay?”

“Just a little foggy.”

“No pain?”

“No pain.”

“Okay.” Sam sat down, reached over and gave Dean’s hand a brief squeeze.

“That wasn’t very manly,” said Dean. “Pretty sure hand squeezes are a bitch move.”

Sam rolled his eyes.

***

The doctor came back that afternoon, after Dean had been subjected more tests: more blood was drawn, there was an MRI, he had to jog on a treadmill with wires stuck to his chest--and all of this while suffering the indignity of a hospital gown. Sammy had hung around, alternately reading some terrifyingly thick book and playing a game on his phone.

They was watching Ancient Aliens when Dr. Ahuja knocked on the door. Dean turned off the TV; Sam tucked his phone into his pocket. Dr. Ahuja looked very serious and Dean had a brief moment of fear: did he actually have some kind of terrible, untreatable cancer? At least with the suppressants he had a chance.

“I’ve had the chance to speak with some colleagues. Unfortunately your episode this morning, which I believe was a small cardiac arrest--”

Dean yelped. “'Small cardiac arrest'? I had a _heart attack_?”

Dr. Ahuja nodded; he seemed much less upset than Dean felt was appropriate. “You had a minor heart attack. We believe it could be connected to the arsenic in most street suppressants--”

“I have arsenic poisoning?”

“Small amounts of arsenic have been found in almost every street suppressant. It is possible that arsenic is causing you problems. But there are also many other toxic ingredients in those suppressants.”

“So I don’t have arsenic poisoning.”

Dr. Ahuja sighed and pushed his glasses up. “We don’t know. What you have--definitively--is a distressed heart, deteriorating kidney function, a loss of bone density that we usually see in much older adults, and a new tendency to have seizures. Unless”--Dr. Ahuja looked down at Dean--“unless you have been having seizures for quite some time, and this was just the first one you had at work.”

Dean rubbed at his neck and looked at the ceiling. “Dammit. Look, there’s only been a few.”

Dr. Ahuja frowned and raised his clipboard. “When? Where were you? Do you know how long it was? Were you injured? How did you feel afterward?”

“At home. I was fine.”

The doctor made more notes. Then he looked at Dean, then Sam, then back at Dean. “Your body is in acute distress, Dean. You need specialized care.”

Dean kind of checked out after that. Distantly, he heard Dr. Ahuja explain the need for a private facility, around-the-clock care, supervised heats. Sam tentatively asked how much such a facility cost; Dr. Ahuja sighed and produced some pamphlets. Eventually, Sam left--he some project for work. He said he would call the facilities Dr. Ahuja had recommended, that he’d get everything figured out, that Dean just needed to focus on getting well. Dean raised a hand to say goodbye, but didn’t say anything. He just kept thinking, over and over again, that he really wasn’t ready to die. 

***

Two days later Sam showed up with a dark-haired man in a perfectly cut suit.

Dean frowned. “Who the fuck is this guy?”

Sam nodded at the smaller man, who was standing just inside the doorway. “This is Castiel Novak,” Sam said, a little tentatively. He looked like he was bracing himself. “We’ve known each other for a few years. He’s going to help out.”

Dean narrowed his eyes. “Help out with what?”

Sam sighed and swallowed. Dean suspected he had prepared a speech.

“Look, Dean. I know you’re going to fight this. It’d be weird if you didn’t. But the fact is that neither one of us has the funds to provide you the medical care you need to get through this. But Castiel does. He’s a good friend. I trust him. He’s going to loan us the money. Once I’m done--”

Dean was immediately furious--he could almost hear his anger buzzing in his ears. “I don’t even know this guy, Sam. He’s going to ‘lend us the money’? The fuck?"

Castiel looked profoundly uncomfortable. “Perhaps...I should step into the hallway?”

Sam startled a little, like he’d forgotten Castiel was there. “Yeah, sorry. I’ll be out there in a minute.”

Dean felt ready to charge out of the room, IV be damned. Sam looked like he wanted to kill him. And like he was going to cry.

Sam sighed and sank into the pleather recliner by the bad. “Look, Dean. I know this is terrible. This is terrible. But this is--this is pretty much the only option we have. Banks don't give loans for omega medical problems. Castiel can help you not die. And maybe not end up sterile.”

“I think you know that I don’t give a shit about how fertile I am. Where do you know this guy from, anyway? Some dude you're apparently so close with, you feel okay asking him for huge amounts of money?”

“He was a few years ahead of me at Stanford. Comes from lots of money, and he runs the family business now. He’s kinda weird, but he’s a good guy. Super smart.” Sam was staring at the floor. “He _offered_ , Dean.”

Dean felt like hitting someone, maybe even Sam. “How many people have you told about this? What, did you make an announcement to the alumni association? Set up a fucking Kickstarter? Jesus _Christ_ , Sam. This shit is private.”

Sam shook his head quickly. “God, Dean--nothing like that. He called a few days ago. And I was upset. I’m fucking terrified, Dean! A doctor had just told me that my brother might _die_ without expensive medical care. Would even _probably_ die. And just because _you_ don’t talk to anyone about your feelings, doesn’t mean that I can’t.”

They sat in a tense silence for a few minutes, and then Sam stood up, sighing heavily again. “This is the help I can offer you, Dean. This is the best thing I have. So--please. Accept it.”

And then he left.

Dean sat in the quiet for a long time, burning with frustration. What the hell kind of kid brother tells some guy all about his omega brother’s issues? Did this Castiel guy know everything? What a fucking betrayal.

Dean was an idiot. A desperate idiot who took street suppressants and maybe had arsenic poison and whose kidneys were considering giving up the ghost and whose brother didn’t even have the decency to keep it to himself.

“Fuck,” he said, aggressively tugging on his sheets. “Fuck."

The guy--Castiel, weird name--was good-looking. Dean would give him that. An alpha, although Dean wouldn’t have guessed it just looking at him. He had the wrong body language. If it weren’t for the smell--cedar, fresh mint--Dean would’ve taken him for an omega. And apparently he was generous, and “super smart”--Dean made a face. Maybe Sammy was into the guy? Maybe the guy was into Sammy?--shit, that made more sense. “Here, take this money to help your brother, and please, let’s have sex very soon.”

“Okay,” Dean said sternly, into the silence of the hospital room. “No more thinking about Sammy having sex. Ever. With anyone.”

A little later a nurse came in to check on him. She asked if he needed help getting to the restroom. Dean shook his head closed his eyes. He was burning with shame; the anger had abated for a moment but now it came roaring back. He hated this feeling more than any other: a general helplessness, the painful knowledge that no matter what resources he had, they meant nothing.

He thought about Dr. Ahuja, his shocked face when Dean said he’d been on suppressants for nearly twelve years. His horror when Dean had owned up to using the kind of shit they cooked up in dirty bathtubs. Now, in the dark room, he really thought about it. Held out his hands in front of him, to consider. Which was more humiliating: dying of suppressant withdrawal? or living because some billionaire was willing to foot the bill? He imagined Sam saying, years from now: “My brother’s dead. Yeah, he died of suppressant withdrawal. He’d been on them for more than a decade, and he was too proud to take money from the really nice guy who offered to cover his medical expenses.”

He almost laughed aloud. His pride was real, and he could feel it protesting in his chest. But fuck that. Maybe Dean had a lot of pride. But he also had a pretty strong survival instinct.

“I am not going to die of this shit,” he said, firmly, to the empty room. He fumbled for his phone to send Sam a text.

 _ok, Sammy_ , he sent. _I’m in_.

And then he went to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

Castiel’s apartment was dark and cool. He put his keys on a small tray by the door and went automatically to loosen his tie.

He sighed. That hadn’t gone well. Sam had been mortified, apologized over and over again even though it was Castiel’s idea to go along--he’d thought Dean might have questions, might want to meet the person who was offering to help. But Dean had looked like he wanted to strangle someone. Probably Castiel.

And while Castiel didn’t necessarily _regret_ offering to pay Dean’s medical bills, it would have been nice for him to be a little less hostile. But Castiel understood. Sam had always described Dean as proud, independent. He’d made it clear that Dean wouldn’t be particularly graceful about the whole thing.

“But--I feel like it’s this, or he might die, you know?” Sam had said, sitting in the backseat while Castiel’s driver navigated a gridlocked downtown. He sighed. “I almost don’t even care if he’s pissed. It’s not like we have other options.”

Castiel had just nodded. He’d always liked Sam: he was friendly, intelligent, hardworking. Castiel was happy to call him friend, and he was glad to be able to help. He’d hoped the meeting wouldn’t be too terrible.

Mostly, the meeting was a bit of a shock. Castiel had had no idea Sam’s brother was so absurdly good-looking and for a long moment he’d been frozen in place, utterly taken aback by Dean Winchester’s singular attractiveness, even in a hospital gown. Now he walked thoughtfully to the bedroom and contemplated the color of Dean’s eyes, the fullness of his lips, the dark, perfect line of his jaw.

Castiel finished undressing in a daze. He put his phone on the bedside table, climbed into cool, clean sheets--Lorie must have changed them--and drifted off to thoughts of Dean.

***

Castiel’s alarm went off at six. He got out of bed, brushed his teeth, examined his chin--did he need to shave?--and put on a bathrobe.

He picked up his phone; there was a text from Sam.

 _Dean texted me late last night_ , he said. _He said he’ll let you help_.

Castiel was surprised--he’d been fairly certain that he’d never seen Dean Winchester again. He shook his head a little, as if to clear it, and texted Sammy back.

 _That’s excellent news_ , he said. _We should go back and speak with him_.

_Yeah, I was thinking maybe lunch? He really hates hospital food, we could bring him something._

Castiel nodded at his phone. _Who doesn’t? I can pick you up at one_. They agreed on a time.

Castiel showered, ate a breakfast of eggs and fruit, and--rather ridiculously, he thought--selected his best suit, a dark, near-black navy, and a light blue tie. He looked out the window--it looked damp and cool. He shrugged into his trench coat, picked up his briefcase, and headed for the elevator.

***

Sam was nervous when Castiel picked him up. “Maybe this time, you could wait outside the room. To start. I could let him know you’re with me, so he doesn’t, you know, freak out.”

“That’s fine, Sam.”

“Oh. And--I shouldn't have, I was at work, but I called those places Dr. Ahuja mentioned. I think this one”--he produced a brochure for a place called Dawn Haven--“would probably be best. It’s cheapest. And the lady I talked to was really nice.”

Castiel examined the brochure. “Money’s really not an issue, Sam. Let’s ask Dr. Ahuja what he recommends.”

Sam nodded. His fists were clenching and unclenching on his knees. His legs barely fit in the back seat. “Okay,” he said. “Okay, yeah.” He stared out the window.

Castiel made a mental note to suggest that Sam ride in the front seat in the future. He could use the leg room.

***

Castiel followed Sam through the hospital. He’d left his briefcase in the car and his hands felt oddly empty. He put them in his pockets. Sam’s shoulders were hunched. Castiel had always thought Sam had a very nice smell--warm and friendly, like freshly baked bread--but now it was acrid with nerves. When they got to Dean’s room, the door was ajar. A nurse was taking his blood pressure, giggling at something Dean had said.

“Of course he's flirting with the nurse,” said Sam. “Let’s wait until she leaves.” They’d stopped for sandwiches; Sam cradled the bag to his chest, like he was afraid the nurse would snatch it away. “And then I’ll go in, and you can, uh, wait in this chair?” He gestured towards a plastic chair a few feet away.

“That’s fine, Sam. Take all the time you need.”

Once the nurse left, Sam took a deep breath and stepped into the room. He was in there nearly ten minutes. Castiel didn’t hear any shouting, which he thought was a very good thing. He checked emails. He should've been in the office; he was missing a meeting. But Greta was more than capable of handling it.

He googled the facility Sam thought would be best: Dawn Haven. He hated the name. It had middling reviews; most people said it was okay, a few wished they’d spent the money to go somewhere else. A user named parsleytime said the food was pretty bad.

 _Well, we’re not going there_ , Castiel thought. According to Sam, Dean was very passionate about food. Especially...pie, if Castiel remembered correctly.

Should he have brought a pie? But he didn’t know what kind of pie he preferred.

He’d have to ask, then. He typed a note into his phone.

He leaned back until his head rested on the wall behind him. He hoped the meeting would go well today; he hoped he’d get close enough to Dean to discern the color of his eyes. Yesterday he’d stayed across the room.

Sam emerged; he put a hand on Castiel’s shoulder. Castiel blinked his eyes open--they were oddly gritty, maybe he hadn’t slept well--and stood. “How did it go?”

“Really well. He said he’s not going to die of this, that it would be too ridiculous.” He was grinning. “He said he kept thinking about how I would feel, having to tell people that my brother died of suppressant poisoning.”

Castiel smiled and stood. He self-conciously checked his cuffs and straightened his tie. When he was finished, he looked up at Sam. "Lead the way." 

***

Dean had finished his sandwich, but was still crunching loudly on chips when they walked in.

“Oh, hey, Castiel.” Dean wiped his fingers on his hospital gown and held out a hand. “Ah, sorry I was such a dick yesterday.” Dean paused and smiled; Castiel felt his heart seize a bit. “It’s nice to meet you. And thank you. Thank you a lot.”

Castiel shook the hand Dean held out. Dean’s hand was rough and warm, a little greasy from the chips; the feel of it made the hair on the back of his neck stand up a little. And his eyes were--green? Hazel? Castiel wanted to get closer, but he dropped Dean’s hand and took a step back, folding his hands in front of him.

“So. Uh--Sammy said something about a place called Dawn Haven? Cheesy, but I’m down, I guess?” He looked at Castiel. “I don’t really know--like, how are we supposed to talk about this? You’re just...casually maybe saving my life? Are you sure you want to do this?”

Castiel nodded. “I’m sure. Also, I've done a bit of research on Dawn Haven. I don’t think it’s the best choice.”

“Well, Sammy said it’s the cheapest. So, that’s where I’m going.”

Castiel shook his head. “I won’t spend my money on inadequate care.”

Dean looked stunned. 

Castiel continued: “Reviews say the food is terrible.”

There was a long silence; Dean seemed to be formulating a response, and it looked like Sam was holding his breath.

Finally it broke: Dean laughed loudly, shaking his head. “I’m glad you understand what’s important to me,” he said, finally. “Okay, no Dawn Haven. I guess I’m glad about that. Place needs a better name.”

Castiel adjusted his tie. That had been easier than he’d anticipated. “I think the best course of action would be to speak to Dr. Ahuja. I’d like to have his input.”

Dean grinned. “Jesus, Cas. You always talk like you’re in a board meeting?”

Castiel felt himself blush at the nickname; his ears were particularly hot. Dean’s smile was bright.

“But anyway, sounds good. Abby--that’s the nurse, the one who just left. We’re friends now.” He grinned and wiggled his eyebrows. Sam rolled his eyes. “Anyway, said he’d be in to see me around five.”

Sam nodded; Castiel was still collecting himself. He felt oddly hurt that Dean was wiggling his eyebrows about the nurse. And he’d never had a nickname before. Was it really a nickname, though, if it had only been used once? He frowned.

“Is that okay with you, Castiel?” Sam was looking at him with big, round eyes. “Maybe I could stay here, you could go do the million things I know you have to do? And you can come back when it’s closer to five.”

Castiel nodded and glanced at his watch. “That sounds good. Please let me know if you hear otherwise about when the doctor will arrive.”

Dean chuckled. “Like I said: board meeting.”

Sam frowned at his brother; Castiel hid a very small smile. He’d always understood joking to be a show of some affection.

***

Castiel rarely had sex. When he did, he paid for it, a fact of which he was neither ashamed nor proud. When he got back to his office, he swiveled his chair around to take in the city and contemplated making a phone call. Samson could have someone at the office in ten minutes, maybe fifteen; they were famously efficient. Castiel would request a white male, mid-twenties, muscular, rugged. He’d fuck him in the adjoining sitting room, and send him off with a healthy tip. He could shower and redress in the absurdly luxurious bathroom his father had installed sixteen years ago.

Finally, he decided against it. What if Sam called and the doctor was coming early? What if Dean needed to talk to him? And besides: Castiel didn’t want an escort. He wanted Dean. If this was how much he wanted it when Dean was suppressed, he dreaded how intense the feeling would be once Dean smelled like an omega.

Castiel closed his eyes for a moment, fending off desire. When he opened his eyes, he turned back to his desk. Greta had emailed notes on the meeting; he had an angry voicemail from his father demanding to know why he’d “stood up” Exellion. A voicemail from his mother, asking if he would be attending Greg Batton’s fortieth birthday party. He sighed, deleted both voicemails, and turned to Greta’s notes.

***

Castiel was at the hospital at four forty, in a considerably worse mood. His father had called back. Novak Senior had gone on a ten-minute rant on the subjects of responsibility, integrity, and profit margins. Never mind that Novak, Inc. was performing better than it ever had, despite an economic downturn; never mind that Castiel had twice the head for business his father did. Lee Novak never turned down the opportunity to make his youngest child feel like an idiot.

But now he was back in Dean’s room, sneaking glances at the patient, who was engrossed in a gameshow. The television was turned up too loud, making the audience’s laughter an aggressive roar. Castiel felt a headache itching up the back of his neck.

Dr. Ahuja arrived promptly at five p.m., looking a bit harassed. Evidently rounds had been very challenging.

“How are you feeling today, Dean?”

Dean muted the television and gave a thumbs-up. “Much better, Doc. No seizures!”

“Yes. And that is very good news. Your kidney ultrasound didn’t raise any alarms, which is also good news.” He looked up from his clipboard. “Have you given any more thought to the idea of a residential heat facility?”

Dean nodded. “I have. Actually,” he swung an arm out towards Castiel, “my brother’s good buddy Cas has agreed to spot me. I’m going to Dawn Haven.”

Cas felt a sharp stab of irritation. “I’m afraid Dean is mistaken, Dr. Ahuja. I most certainly have not agreed to Dawn Haven. I would like to know your personal recommendation.”

Dr. Ahuja pushed up his glasses and looked between Dean and Castiel. He spoke very carefully, as if trying not to offend anyone. “Dawn Haven is a fine enough institute. The facilities are not as luxurious--which isn’t really that important--but the doctors are plenty capable. They’re fully accredited, which is more than I can say for some places.”

Dean grinned in triumph. “Ha! See? Doc supports my choice.”

The doctor continued as if Dean hadn't spoken. “That being said, given the extraordinary conditions of Dean’s situation, I’d go to Rambly.”

Sam practically shrieked. “Rambly is ten thousand dollars a week!”

“Which,” Castiel said calmly, “I can absolutely pay.”

Dean looked furious, but he didn’t say anything.

“The downside to Rambly is that it is a small facility, world-renowned, and has quite a waiting list. It treats a multitude of heat disorders. You may not get a bed for a few months. Which, in my opinion, is far too long to wait.”

Castiel frowned. “Surely we can donate--”

Dr. Ahuja shook his head. “Rambly operates on a first-come, first-served basis. You could offer a new wing and they wouldn’t move you up the list.”

“What are our other options?”

“There’s always in-home care. Plenty of very good doctors--many of them Rambly-trained--prefer to handle heat withdrawal in home. The idea is that it’s more comfortable for the omega, both familiarity of surroundings and the presence of family. It’s what I would recommend most highly. It is also quite expensive.”

Dean shook his head. “I’m supposed to have a bunch of doctors in my apartment? Yeah, no. That would not be comfortable for me. I’ll go to Dawn Haven.”

“We’ll do in-home treatment,” Castiel said firmly; he knew he was acting as if he were in the boardroom again, but he hardly cared. He might look like he was easily railroaded, but he wasn't. He turned to Dean. “If you want my assistance, that’s how you’ll be treated. You can install yourself in my beach house.”

“In your _beach house_.” He said it in a vicious, mocking tone. “Yeah fucking right. Look, Castiel. You’re helping, not dictating. I still get to decide--”

“My money, my terms. If you don’t accept in-home care, then I don’t foot the bill.”

“Castiel!” That was Sam, looking betrayed. He sounded a little strangled.

“Perhaps you’re under the impression, Dean, that my role in this arrangement is of some kind of neutral ATM. That is not the case. I told Sam I would get you the best care available, and that is what I will do.”

Castiel took a step towards the bed. “In this, I am not open to compromise.”

“You--you--you _asshole_.”

Castiel shrugged, unbothered. “I’ve been called worse.”

Dean looked at Sam. “Real cool _friend_ you got here, Sammy.”

Sam looked helpless.

Dr. Ahuja was looking at his clipboard again. He started toward the door.

“Let me know what you decide on,” he said. His gaze landed on Dean. “Respectfully, Mr. Winchester, you’d be an idiot to refuse this man's assistance.” The doctor closed the door behind him; Dean threw a box of Kleenex across the room. Castiel was surprised he hadn't thrown it at him.

This was a space Castiel knew well: high-stakes negotiations, people who couldn’t or wouldn’t accept terms, CEOs and who got so angry they could barely speak. Eventually, it would all even out in his favor. The merger went through, he got the board vote. But Castiel could be cutthroat, he knew. He hadn't anticipated needing to be that way here, and part of him regretted it. 

He looked at Dean, at the length of his lashes, and hoped he would forgive him.

Finally, Castiel cleared his throat. “I’m sorry you’re angry, Dean. But as I said: I will not compromise on this.” Dean dropped his head back so hard it bounced on the bedframe.

Sam looked tense and drawn.

“Fine, Castiel. Fucking fine. We’ll do this your way. But--you’re doing this for Sam, right?”

"Initially, yes--but, now--"

“Then I don’t have to be nice. Get the fuck out of my room.”


	3. Chapter 3

Dean watched Castiel leave. He’d gone a little pale and looked like he wanted to say something, but then he silently slipped out the door. 

“Jesus Christ,” breathed Sam, dropping into a chair. “Dean--” 

“I don’t want to hear one fucking word. Your buddy there is a secret asshole. Acts all quiet and reserved, then all the sudden he’s the voice of God, telling me what to do with my life.” 

Sam rubbed at his forehead. “He really means well, Dean. Seriously. He just wants--” 

“To be in charge? Yeah, I get that. I get that Mr. _Novak_ has a real boner for getting his way. Got that loud and clear.” 

Sam looked defeated. He stood up and stretched. “I’m heading out. I don’t even know if Castiel--” his phone buzzed. “Oh, okay. He’s waiting for me.” 

“ _Waiting for you?_ What, like you can’t get home alone? What the fuck, Sam. Are you boning this dude?” 

Sam laughed--loudly, so loudly Dean shrank into himself. “Am I _boning_ Castiel? Uh, no, Dean. And I think you know that. Because I have zero interest in alphas?” Sam shook his head. “What the hell, man.” 

Dean crossed his arms. “Shut up. It just crossed my mind. Maybe he wants to fuck you.” 

“Nope. Absolutely not. Castiel has a strict omegas-only policy. And besides--” 

Sam cut himself off; Dean looked at him curiously. “And besides what?” 

Sam shook his head. “None of your business. Anyway, look, I’m leaving. I’ll come back tomorrow. We need to set up a plan--I know you’re sick of being here. And you need to start your treatment.” 

Dean waved a hand dismissively. “Yeah, yeah. I know. I’m sure you and Novak can decide what’s to be done. You don’t need my input, that’s for sure.” 

“Seems kind of shitty of you to put this all on us,” said Sam, shrugging into his raincoat. “Especially after your little tantrum--”

“That was _not_ a tantrum,” Dean cut in. “That was a completely justified response to someone getting all boardroom alpha about my personal health.” 

“Okay, sure. Sure. Anyway, I’ll be back tomorrow. We can talk about stuff then.” 

Sam leaned over and wrote something on the little notepad on Dean’s beside table. Dean couldn’t make it out. 

“What’s that?” 

“Castiel’s number. In case you want to apologize. For your _tantrum_.” 

And then he left. 

Dean picked up the small note and examined it. No way was he apologizing, even if he was feeling a creeping sense of guilt. He folded it up into a tiny square and tucked it into his wallet. 

***

Castiel showed up at the hospital around noon. Dean was pulling on his jeans when the other man appeared in the doorway, in another suit and the same trenchcoat. 

“Jesus _fuck_ ,” Dean said, quickly zipping up his fly. “Don’t you knock?” 

Castiel looked a little wrongfooted; there were spots of pink high on his cheeks. He barely resembled the man who would say something like _in this, I am not open to compromise_. 

“I’m sorry--the nurses--they said you were getting an MRI, that you weren’t in your room. I’d intended to wait for you.” 

Dean pulled on a T-shirt and resolutely ignored how good Castiel looked. “I _was_ getting an MRI. And now I’m leaving.” 

Castiel took a step forward. “Have you discussed this with Dr. Ahuju?” 

“If by ‘discussed’ you mean ‘demanded to be discharged,’ then yeah, absolutely. We had a nice chat. I’ve been here for four days. Hospitals suck, no matter how cute the nurses are.” 

“But, Dean--we aren’t ready. I’ve only just gotten in touch with--”

Dean held up a hand; he was halfway into a flannel shirt. “Look, _Mr. Novak_. I know you’re bossy; I got a pretty clear read on that yesterday, thanks. And I am grateful”--it seemed like it pained him to say the word--“for your help. But between now and moving out to your house in the _Hamptons_ , I’m going to be in my apartment.” 

Castiel visibly winced when Dean said “Mr. Novak.” 

“And if you have more seizures? If you need more bloodwork?” 

Dean sighed and held up a hand, like he was taking an oath. “I solemnly swear to let Sam know if I have another seizure. And to comply with any demands for bloodwork.” 

“You’re taking an unnecessary risk,” said Castiel. He was starting to get that boardroom voice again. Dean found it simultaneously intriguing and infuriating. 

Dean finished buttoning up the flannel and reached for his wallet. 

“At least let me take you home. I have a car outside. And I’m sure there’s some paperwork--” 

“Sam took care of most of it. I signed the rest this morning.” Dean looked uncomfortable. “I think you’ll be getting a bill.”

Castiel nodded. “Good, I’m glad it’s taken care of. Then let’s just sign your discharge papers and we can get you home. I have a car outside.” 

Dean had wanted to argue--didn’t Castiel get it? He wanted to be away from him--but the idea of not having to deal with the subway was too tempting. The car was probably spacious, with a leather interior; it probably still smelled new. So Dean agreed, and submitted to the required paperwork, acknowledging that he was leaving against the doctor’s recommendations. And then he followed Castiel to his car. 

It was more or less what Dean expected: a black sedan, freshly washed, with gleaming tires and heavily tinted windows. 

“This is Bruno,” Castiel said, introducing the driver, a muscular guy in a suit who was reading a very thick book. Dean figured he had a lot of downtime. 

“Hey, Bruno,” said Dean. “NIce to meet you.” He stuck out a hand; Bruno shook it through the window. 

“Glad to meet you, Mr. Winchester.” 

Dean grimaced. “Just Dean, please. How’s your book?” 

Bruno grinned. “Very good. It’s part of a series--brothers who fight evil. Demons, angels. Engrossing.” 

Dean nodded. He wasn’t much of a reader--especially not about angels or demons--but to each his own. 

“We’re headed to Dean’s apartment, Bruno,” said Castiel. “I’ll text you the address.” 

They got into the car--black leather seats, impossibly buttery. Woodgrain accents. 

Dean told Castiel his address, who typed it into the phone. Bruno’s phone _dinged_ up front and they set off. 

Castiel was quiet on the drive, and Dean was grateful. He was trying to figure how he’d left the apartment five days ago. Probably a mess. He wasn’t especially tidy. It’d be better if Sam were staying there too, but he’d moved into the creepy cult-like “intern housing.” 

“I want to be a part of the community,” Sam had said. “And it’ll just be for the summer.” 

Dean groaned. He needed to go to the grocery store. 

“Do you have any errands you need to run? Groceries? I know Sam’s staying at the Hollingsworth barracks.” 

Dean ignored the fact that Castiel had more or less read his mind. “Do they actually call them barracks?” 

Castiel nodded. “They do.” 

“That’s ridiculous.” 

“It is.” 

Dean was silent for a few minutes. He traced the route of a bike messenger through the traffic. “Yeah. Uh--groceries. That would be really helpful, actually.” 

He felt embarrassed and angry at once, asking for even _more_ help. At least he could pay for these himself, he thought. 

Castiel leaned forward to tell Bruno to stop at a grocery store. Dean stared out the window, feeling even more frustrated with his life than usual. 

***

Castiel insisted that Bruno carry up the groceries. He was a big guy, bald-headed and tattooed, and Dean let him. He had just been in the hospital for four days. And it wasn’t a lot: some milk, a pre-made apple pie that Castiel had mysteriously “hmm’d” over, and miscellaneous junk food. 

“Perhaps some carrots?” Castiel had said, eyeing the contents of Dean’s cart. “Or chicken?” 

But Dean had ignored him. And now he was turning the key in lock of apartment 109, hoping to god the place didn’t smell disgusting. 

The door swung open and Dean was profoundly relieved. “God bless you, Sammy,” he said, mostly to himself. He stepped inside and Bruno moved past him, placing the grocery bags on the laminate countertop. The place smelled like cleaning supplies. 

“Sam came by last night,” Castiel explained. He shrugged. “Perhaps he suspected you were ready to get out of the hospital. Would you like assistance with your groceries?” 

Dean shook his head. It was almost impossible to reconcile, the frankly scary man who had bullied Dean into accepting high-quality medical care and now the man he’d met first: a little shy, helpful, seeking. 

“Nah, I’m good,” said Dean. Castiel looked around like he wanted to stay, but couldn’t come up with any excuse. “I’m sure I’ll talk to you soon,” Dean added. _Get out_ , he wanted to say. _I don’t want my entire apartment to smell like your perfect alpha-scent._ But he remembered how he’d talked to Castiel yesterday, and he couldn’t summon the strength to be angry all over again. 

Instead, he attempted an apology. “I’m sorry about last night, Castiel. I shouldn’t have talked to you like that. I just--” 

“I was being rather bossy,” Castiel said. “I’m sorry as well.” He sighed. “I’m embarrassed to say it, but I am rather used to getting my way.” 

Dean smiled a little. “Yeah, I figured. Me too, come to think of it. But, uh--I should’ve asked this earlier, but I was too scared. You’re not...withdrawing your offer?” 

Castiel looked shocked and a little hurt. “Of course not. I realize you don’t think much of me, Dean, but--” 

Dean held up his hands. “Woah, woah. I don’t think less of you. I just--needed to make sure. If you’d changed your mind, no one would’ve held it against you.” 

“Yes. Well. No, not at all. I didn’t even consider withdrawing my offer.” 

“Okay,” said Dean exhaled shakily. He hadn’t realized how completely he’d convinced himself that Castiel would do all this--take him home, help with groceries, all of it--and then yank it all away. “Okay, that’s great. That’s really great, Castiel. Thanks.” 

Castiel gave Dean a little smile, which he tried to return, even though he suddenly felt like he just needed to go to sleep. 

“I’m going to hit the hay,” said Dean, moving towards the door. This was how polite people said goodbye to their guests, right? “Thanks a lot for today. And as for setting everything up--” 

Castiel cut him off. “Why don’t you just get some sleep, Dean. We can talk tomorrow.” He reached out like he was going to put his hand on Dean’s arm, but appeared to decide against it at the last minute. 

“Sounds good.” 

Dean watched him walk down the dingy hallway. When he got to the top of the stairs, he looked back, directly at Dean, and gave a little wave. 

Dean waved back. 

And then he collapsed on the couch and fell immediately to sleep. 


	4. Chapter 4

Five days later, Castiel drove out to his home in the Hamptons. Dean insisted on referring to it as Castiel’s “estate,” and Castiel didn’t dare tell him that the Novaks owned an actual estate in Tuscany. 

The doctors were already at the house--Sara Grange and Gerald Ethridge, board-certified endocrinologists who specialized in heat science. Both came highly recommended, at a very high price that Castiel genuinely didn’t mind paying. 

Castiel pulled into the drive and felt some tension leave his body. He loved this house: not terribly large, right on the beach, with a tremendous wraparound porch. 

There were moments when Castiel regretted offering the beach house. It was a private oasis, one of very few things that his parents had never touched. He didn’t have parties; he didn’t invite friends for dinner. He had a housekeeper, Sandy, who stayed in a small cottage on the property, and himself. He sometimes imagined getting a dog.

But part of him did want Dean there. Perhaps it would allow Dean to better understand him; to see that he wasn’t just a businessman, he was a man who laughed and wore clothing that wasn’t a suit and made pancakes. 

You’re deluding yourself, Novak, Castiel thought. This is not a romance novel. 

He got out of the car as Dr. Grange walked through the front door. He recognized her from the photo on her website.  
  
“Mr. Novak?” She was smaller than he’d imagined, probably just five feet, with a very round face and large, clear plastic glasses. She held out a hand. “Sara Grange. Your home is lovely. And it has excellent facilities.” 

They shook hands. Castiel guessed she was maybe forty-five, fifty. She had a distinctly maternal air. Her eyes were a warm brown. 

“I came a day ahead, to make sure everything is ready,” said Castiel. “Is Dr. Ethridge here?” 

She nodded. “We’ve set up an office on the first floor. Let’s go on down.” 

Castiel followed her through the house, down the stairs to the lower floor. 

There were three rooms on the first floor: the heat room and two guest bedrooms. They had made one of those bedrooms into a lab; the other was a kind of office. Dr. Ethridge was in there, bent over a laptop. The bed had been removed; there were two long folding tables now. 

Ethridge was older, and very, very tall; he stood up when they entered, towering over Castiel. Castiel held out a hand. Ethridge shook it warmly. 

Both Ethridge and Dr. Grange were omegas; Grange’s scent was clean and citrusy, while Ethridge smelled like woodsmoke. 

“We weren’t expecting you until tomorrow,” said Ethridge, letting go of Castiel’s hand. “Is Dean with you?” 

Castiel shook his head. “I just wanted to check in. Sam and Dean will arrive tomorrow.” 

Ethridge nodded. “Well, this is our office,” he said, sweeping his arms across the room. “Let’s show you the equipment we’ve got next door.” 

Castiel was distracted by the heat room. It was just has he remembered it: indigo walls, wood floors, a hooked rug. Castiel had wanted the room to be cozy. There was a brass lamp, and some oil seascapes he’d inherited from his grandmother. A chair was stacked with blankets. A built-in bookcase held a television, shelves of paperbacks, and cabinets full of heat supplies. 

He tried very hard not to think about would Dean would be doing in that room very soon. 

“Quite honestly one of the nicest heat rooms either of us has ever been in,” Ethridge was saying. “Really. And excellent soundproofing, by the way. Top-notch work.” 

Castiel nodded. 

“And in here,” Dr. Grange called from the room across the hall, “we have all the medical equipment. Everything we’ll need to run tests, monitor vitals...all of that.” 

Castiel stepped inside. The room looked like an actual lab. “Very nice,” he said. “It looks like you’re very prepared. Thank you for letting me take a look.” He felt twitchy; he wanted to go for a swim. “If you have any questions, please continue to contact my assistant. Unless it’s an emergency. I’ll be on hand for emergencies.” 

The doctors smiled and nodded and Castiel started to walk away, then turned, remembering something. “Do you like your rooms? And Sandy explained that you have full reign of the kitchen?” 

They nodded some more; Castiel’s PA had taken care of all of this, but it seemed important that he ask questions too. 

“That’s wonderful. I’ll see you both later?” 

The doctors looked a little relieved to see him go. 

***

Castiel stayed in the sea until it was nearly dark, alternately floating and swimming lazy, aimless laps, thinking of Dean’s pending arrival. The sea was cool--it was only very early summer--but Castiel had been swimming in the late spring Atlantic since he was a child. 

Finally he headed in, taking a moment to breathe, to look up at the first appearing stars. 

That night, falling asleep to the sound of the ocean, he felt a worry so acute he could nearly taste it. He desperately wanted Dean to be healthy. For Sam, he told himself firmly. But he knew that wasn’t entirely true. 

He dreamt of the sea, of driftwood, of the wind in Dean’s hair. 

***

Sam and Dean arrived the next day around four. Castiel had spent the previous six hours swimming and attempting to relax on the porch, but he couldn’t focus on the legal thriller he was trying to read. He found himself downstairs a number of times; Ethridge and Grange were clearly very tired of answering his questions. 

Dean got out and made a big show of whistling in appreciation. “Damn, Cas. Nice digs.” 

Sam called hello and unloaded the suitcases. 

Castiel gave them a brief tour of the house: the large kitchen, all white, that took in sun all day; the den, painted an emerald green; and Dean’s bedroom. 

“Not that I’ll be in there much,” said Dean ruefully.

Neither Castiel nor Sam said anything. Finally, Castiel suggested they go meet the doctors. “They’re very experienced,” said Cas, leading them downstairs. “And they seem very nice.” 

Dean rolled his eyes. “Lucky me.” 

They went downstairs and Cas made the introductions. Ethridge and Grange looked at Dean as if he might be a science experiment, but Castiel supposed their kind of work required some objectivity. Dean was clearly anxious: he said little, kept his voice low, and practically ran away from the doctors. 

Sandy cooked dinner: grilled chicken, tremendous salad of romaine, and apple pie for dessert. 

“I’ll be damned,” said Dean, smiling hugely. “I’ll be damned.” 

Castiel had grinned into his wine. 

They went to bed late, Castiel drifting upstairs, around midnight. Sam actually gave him a hug, thanked him with tears in his voice. Dean smiled and lazily toasted him with his pint glass. 

Sam and Dean stayed up past one, talking in low tones that drifted up the stairs. Castiel watched the clock on his bedside table until he heard them come up and separate into two guest rooms down the hall. 

“Love ya, Sammy,” said Dean. 

Castiel didn’t believe in god; he wasn’t the kind of man who prayed, or even thought much of higher powers. But he couldn’t stop himself from whispering into the dark: “Please let this go well. Please let Dean be okay.” 

He slept long and hard, and had no dreams. 


	5. Chapter 5

Dean was pretty sure he was dying. 

His throat was sandpaper-dry; every muscle hurt, every part of his hurt. His teeth were throbbing. He thought of when he was eight and he had the flu so bad that his fingernails hurt.

This was a lot worse. 

He wasn’t sure how much time passed between him waking up and him opening his eyes. When he did finally manage it Ethridge was waiting at his bedside, frowning intently and holding a glass of water with a straw. 

Dean took a few sips and made an indescribable sort of moan-groan. That water felt _good_. He reached for more, but Ethridge stopped him with a giant hand on his shoulder. 

“You should take it slow,” he said. “Give it a few minutes.” 

Dean was too tired to argue. He relaxed against the pillows and tried to think pleasant, pain-fighting thoughts. He drifted and listened to the murmur of voices outside the hall. 

In a testament to how shitty he felt, it took him a minute to recognized Sam’s voice. 

“Sam,” he tried to say, but his mouth was too dry; it came out sounding like “Saah.” He coughed and tried again. “Sam!” 

This time he made enough noise for Ethridge to stick his head back in. 

“Sam’s here?” It came out like “Saah’s har,” but Ethridge appeared to understand sandpaper throat. 

Ethridge disappeared for a moment and then Sam came rushing into the doorway, nearly braining himself on the low headjamb. Dean tried to laugh, but--of course--that hurt too. 

“He’s awake? Why didn’t you tell me he was awake?” Sam was practically bellowing. 

“’s okay, Sammy,” said Dean. “I jus’ woke u’.” Dean tried “up” again, but his body was simply not interested in producing a “p.”

Sam was grinning. He took Dean’s hand. “How are you feeling.” 

Dean tried to swallow. “Shih.” He closed his eyes. 

The water cup and straw were provided to him again; he drank deeply, Ethridge’s warnings be damned. He was _thirsty_. 

He coughed a little. “The fuck, Sammy.” Ah, there it was. Entire words. “You went back to the city." 

Sam nodded. “Sure did. And then four days later Dr. Grange called to say you were nearly dead, so I thought I should come back.” 

“Oh shit,” said Dean. “I nearly died? I don’t even remember.” He was almost annoyed. Wasn’t a person supposed to remember stuff like that?

“You were comatose,” said Sam. “You--you really almost died. Like, _really_.” 

“What happened?” 

“The kind of stuff they say can happen. Mostly you had a lot of seizures.” 

“Huh." 

“Yeah. It was pretty scary.” 

“Sounds it.” 

A woman Dean didn’t recognize appeared in the room. 

“Who’re you?” Dean said. He’d misplaced his manners.

“This is, uh, Jess,” said Sam, blushing hard. “She’s an ICU nurse.” 

She smiled. “Glad to see you awake, Dean.” 

Dean smiled back. She was gorgeous, with blond hair cascading down her back. She made Dean think of California. 

She walked over to some very hospital-looking machines and scrutinized their screens, then came up to Dean. “Sorry,” she said. “But we need a little blood.” 

Dean dutifully extended his arm left arm--the right had already taken a beating. He was delighted when he couldn’t even feel the needle. 

She left and Dean turned to look at Sam expectantly. “So?” 

Sam shuffled his feet. “So what?” 

“Uh, what’s the situation with Miss California?” 

“There is no ‘situation.’ She’s your nurse. I mean, yeah, she’s nice and pretty and--” 

“And you want to have her babies. Better get to it.”

***

Sam left after a little while. Dean figured he was going for a swim but didn’t want Dean to feel bad about it, which was very considerate. 

But god, he was _bored_. 

The TV was huge, and it had cable _and_ every streaming service you could imagine. But Dean didn’t want to watch TV. He didn’t want to read books. He wanted to go outside, to get the Impala out of the garage that cost almost as much of his rent, drive for at least eighteen hours.

He sighed. God only knew when he’d see the Impala again. 

After a moment of standing blankly at the television, his mind wandered to Castiel. He’d been thinking of him a lot: of his eyes, of how he looked in a suit. 

Dean had also been thinking about how the guy had only managed two visits to the heat room, and both of them had been bizarre. Once, he’d shoved a lunch tray at Ethridge, then bolted down the hall. The second time Sam was talking to the doctors in the hallway, and Dean had looked up and there was Castiel, looking rumpled and sleep-deprived, not going any farther than the doorway. 

In that moment, Dean had smelled Castiel for the first time without heat suppressants. The scent had been intoxicating, so rich it was nearly palpable. He’d felt himself leaning towards Castiel, lifting a hand, opening his mouth to ask him to come closer, to touch him--but then the other man had disappeared.

Dean scowled. Maybe the guy just had issues. Trust Sam to befriend some crazy bajillionaire. 

***

Dean had always been told that heats made you impossibly horny, so desperate you’d do anything to get off. Friends laughed and told raunchy stories about humping chairs and buying giant dildos with knots the size of a couple of fists or whatever. But mostly Dean just felt tired and sore.

He’d whined about it to Grange and she’d just nodded. “That’s fairly normal for someone with your medical history.” 

Generally Dean preferred her explanations--Ethridge got very excited about the _science_ of it all and tended to talk as if everyone knew the intimate mechanisms of biochemistry. Grange talked to Dean like he was maybe a little stupid, which Dean would normally find gravely offensive. But in this instance it was helpful. 

“Any idea how long this lasts? I don’t think I really quite understood how miserable this ‘adjustment phase’ would be. When do I get to heat things up?” 

Grange had rolled her eyes. Dean liked this about her: she laughed, and she rolled her eyes. “Hopefully just another four to six days of the malaise. And then you should start to experience classic symptoms of an omega heat: increasing sex drive, lubrication--” 

“Yeah, I know that part, thanks. And then we start the ten-day heats.” 

“Right. Hopefully no more than three of those.” 

“And then they start to get normal.” 

She’d nodded. 

“Sorry, I know we’ve talked about all this. It’s just very different from what I expected. Although, I don’t really know what I expected, either.” 

She’d given him a sympathetic look. “I understand that, Dean. Please always ask questions. Even if you’ve already asked ten, twenty times. We want you to know.” 

Now, thinking about Castiel, and the heat that was hopefully coming, Dean felt strangely nervous. He’d thought of Castiel--might’ve done more than thinking, if it weren’t for the body-deadening effects of withdrawal. He wondered how it would be when he was in heat, knowing Castiel was in the same house. He thought of how he’d seen Castiel on the day they’d arrived, in jeans and a white T-shirt, relaxed, smelling of salt. 

Dean been nervous that night, but he still had the presence of mind to take in Castiel’s wine damp lips and the flexing of his forearms. Dean had felt almost like a voyeur, seeing the man out of a suit, barefoot and smiling, uncorking a bottle of wine and proudly producing a six-pack of glass-bottled beer. Dean had grinned at him. And then later, the apple pie? Dean may have fallen in love a little. 

Even in the empty room, Dean found himself blushing. But this was stupid--even if he had sex with Castiel, it would only be sex, and it would just make things weird and anyway, even if he liked the guy’s eyes, he’d barely came to visit. Castiel didn’t even _like_ Dean.

He shifted in bed and picked up the remote control, telling himself very firmly that he was no longer allowed to think about Castiel. 

***

Instead, of course, he dreamed about him--a startlingly explicit sex dream that made Dean burn when he thought about it. There had been tongues, and seeking fingers, and Castiel’s voice, dark and commanding and irresistible. 

“Jesus Christ,” said Dean to his empty bedroom. “This has got to stop.” 

He wondered if Cas would come down today. How weird would that be, like Dean’s porno dream had called to Cas, upstairs at his desk. 

Dean wondered if he’d be in a suit, or in those jeans--

“Stop it,” said Dean. “Seriously.” 

“Stop what?” Sam had pushed the door open. He was holding a cup of Castiel’s fancy coffee, which Dean was only allowed to smell. 

“Nothing," Dean said quickly. “I was giving myself a pep talk." 

Sam raised an eyebrow, but was brotherly enough not to say anything. He took a sip of his coffee. “How are you feeling?” 

Dean shrugged. “Tired. Sore. Irritated. Happy I’m not in a coma.” 

Sam nodded. “Sounds about right. But," he said, pausing dramatically. "I bring glad tidings. They said you could go outside today.” 

“Holy shit,” said Dean. “Holy shit, are you serious?” 

He’d seen nothing of the world but his window for almost a month; the idea of getting out of this bedroom was truly the most exciting thing he could imagine. 

“Yep. But only fifteen minutes. They don’t want you far away from all of this,” Sam said, gesturing to the mysterious equipment by Dean’s bed. “But you’re off of your IV and you’ve been stable for five days. So you get to go outside.” 

“This is fantastic,” said Dean, hurrying to stand. He felt magically less tired, less sore. He didn’t bother changing into real clothes, just shoved his feet into the weird slipper things Castiel had provided. “Let’s _go_ , man.” 

***

They left their shoes on the deck and walked onto the beach. Dean closed his eyes and felt the sun. 

“Feel good?” 

Dean nodded. “It’s fantastic.” He opened his eyes and squinted at the ocean. “Who’s out there swimming?” 

Sam held a hand over his eyes and looked where Dean was pointing. “Probably Castiel,” he said. “He swims every day.” 

Dean’s mind immediately conjured the image of a dripping wet Castiel in nothing but swim trunks, water running down his naked skin. 

He swallowed. “Maybe we should--” 

But then there was a splashing, and the sound of someone calling his name. No way did Castiel get to them that fast. 

“Dean? Dean! It’s so nice to see you out here.” Castiel had almost reached them. Apparently he was some kind of water sprinter. 

He was gorgeous: his soaking hair stuck out in crazy angles and his skin was just as smooth and pale as Dean had imagined. Somehow his eyes looked even more blue. 

Dean ignored Castiel’s questions about his health--yes, obviously he was feeling better, well at least he was, until _someone_ had to come rising out of the waves like a fucking merman--and focused on his breathing. There was a sudden wave of nausea, and he thought he might throw up. 

Castiel must have a good idea what nausea looked like, because he was suddenly barking out orders. “We need to get him inside. Dean? Can you walk?” 

Dean sort of half-nodded, half shook his head; Castiel anchored one surprisingly strong arm around his waist and led him towards the house. Sam ran ahead to alert the doctors, jumping over the dunes like some kind of mutant gazelle. 

Dean was furious--embarrassed and too ill to appreciate Castiel’s _wet, mostly naked_ body pressed against his.

“It was supposed to be fifteen minutes,” he said. He knew he was whining. 

“It’s all right, Dean,” Castiel kept saying. “I’ve got you. It’s all right.” 

For a brief, terrible moment, Dean thought he might cry--thought he might just collapse in sobs, right there in the sand. 

But Castiel’s arm was around him, so he kept going. He just kept going. 

***

The next day, Grange came in dragging a chair. She put it by Dean’s bed, then pulled out an iPad and stylus. 

“Dean,” she said. Her voice was very Business. “We’ve been working together for awhile now. Dr. Ethridge and I have a great deal of information about your body.” Her tone was very gentle. “But you have never volunteered any information regarding your decision to forgo heats for such a long time.” 

Dean’s jaw tightened. 

“I’d kinda been hoping to skip that,” said Dean. “It’s not really on my list of things I want to talk about.”

Grange nodded. “I guessed as much.” She was silent for a moment. “It’s true that we can complete your treatment without an explanation for your suppressant use. But it’s also true that discussing the cause often helps a patient avoid a relapse.” 

“You make it sound like I’m a drug addict.” 

She frowned. “Do you not see the parallels?” 

Dean sighed. Of course he did. But it felt different somehow. He didn’t get high off of suppressants, not that he could ever recall. They just...kept him safe. 

Grange allowed him the silence. He really did like her. 

“I never really cared for being an omega,” Dean finally said. 

She stayed quiet. 

“I mean--my dad was an alpha. And I wanted to be like my dad. And then Sam comes along, and _he’s_ an alpha. That didn’t make it any better.” 

After a moment, Grange tentatively asked a question. “What do you dislike about being an omega?” 

“I mean, stupid stuff. How they tell you that omegas are supposed to be homemakers, caring mothers. Alphas take care of people, earn the money, all of that. Which, for the record, I know is totally wrong. But I still hated it. And having the heats seemed like accepting it. Not to mention they sound totally humiliating.” 

“It’s important to be safe during heat,” she said. “But those horror stories you hear--they’re rare. Often they involve the influence of other drugs or street suppressants. Sometimes people decide to go off of suppressants without any medical supervision, and it backfires horribly.” 

“Yeah, yeah.” 

“Of course, none of this invalidates your fears. I say it only to offer some facts that may one day prove helpful.” She tapped a few buttons on her iPad. “I get the impression that you’re done for today. But maybe we could talk more tomorrow?” 

Dean nodded. “Yeah. Maybe.” 

She left, pulling the chair behind her. The room seemed quieter than usual. 

Dean was staring off into space, sad and bored, when he remembered something. He retrieved his wallet from the bedside table and dug out a tiny, folded square. He opened it and smiled at Sam’s familiar handwriting. 

_Castiel’s #_ , it read. _555-621-3492_

Dean carefully entered a new contact into his phone, checking the number two, three times. He probably wouldn’t text Castiel tonight. But maybe, eventually. Ask him where the hell he’s keeping himself. Tell him to get his ass down there for a visit. 

Make friends.


	6. Chapter 6

Castiel was not a particularly possessive alpha. He disliked that sort of thing: the posturing and control, the need to perpetually enforce one’s authority.

But he’d nearly lost his mind when they told him Dean was comatose. 

Ethridge had come upstairs reeking of worry, clearly terrified of telling Castiel; which was warranted, because Castiel had thought he was going to throttle him. He’d ordered Ethridge out of the room. The second the door was closed, he’d thrown his monitor at the far wall, where it had left a dramatic gash in the drywall. 

Not his best moment, Castiel allowed. He sank into his chair and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. 

The news had triggered a cascade of doubts: Ethridge had told him yesterday that Dean was fine, that his numbers were good. Were these the right doctors? Had Castiel somehow hired crackpots? Should they have put Dean in a facility? Why, exactly, had Castiel thought he should get involved in this? 

Not to mention the overwhelming guilt. Castiel had only been down to visit Dean once, and it had been physically painful. Dean’s pheromones were practically pulsing through the first floor of the house, sometimes drifting up to the second floor. 

Castiel wasn’t interested in having an embarrassing reaction in front of anyone, medical professionals or no. 

He’d steeled himself and come down when Dean had woken up. Sam was giddy, bouncing on the balls of his feet, dragging Castiel downstairs to see. 

“He looks a little worse for the wear but he’s _awake!_ ” 

Castiel had peeked in the room and there he was Dean: pale but blinking his eyes, looking for a moment at just Castiel. They’d held one another eyes for a moment--Castiel had felt his stomach actually turn over, a combination of relief and want--and then he’d fled. 

And he hadn’t been back. 

***

Castiel was lying in his bed, carefully going over every moment of his encounter with Dean on the beach, lingering particularly on when Dean had let him wrap and arm around him and lead him into the house. Dean was solid and warm; Castiel, even worried, had wanted to push his fingers under Dean’s thin T-shirt, seek out his skin. 

It had just been some nausea, nothing to worry about, but Castiel had felt a spike of emotion when he’d seen Dean’s face tense in discomfort. If he’d thought Dean would have allowed it, he’d have carried him into the house. 

Now, a few days later, Grange had assured him that Dean was continuing to mend, that they expected a real heat to begin soon, a matter of days. 

Castiel was terrified. Things had been hard enough so far; how was he going to cope with knowing Dean was in heat down there, desperate, his needs unmet?

Not that he had any other option. 

Suddenly his phone buzzed; it was right by his elbow. There was a text from an unknown number. 

_what’s up, cas?_

Castiel frowned. “Cas”? He didn’t recall giving Dean his number. Maybe Sam had--

_oh right. sorry. this is dean._

Castiel just stared at his phone in disbelief. 

Another text: _ok, i guess you aren’t there._

Cas fumbled for something to say--anything. He felt sick with nerves. 

_I’m here_ , he said. _Doing some work things_ , he lied. 

_oh man, sorry--I’ll leave you alone._

Castiel shook his head and made a noise of frustration. _No, that’s not what I meant. How are you feeling?_

_eh, better. but still pretty shitty. this withdrawal stuff is no joke. like when i almost died_

_Yes_ , said Castiel. _We were all very worried._

_well damn cas. if you’re so worried you should come to visit_

Castiel blinked at his phone. It had never occurred to him that Dean might take offense at his absence. _I’m very sorry, Dean. I thought I might intrude_. 

_uh, no. and anyway, i could use some intruding._

Castiel almost felt like giggling. _I’m sorry if you’re bored. Do you need anything?_

_nah, i have a pretty sweet set up here. plus you may recall that i was recently allowed fifteen minutes outdoors_

_Yes, I recall_. 

_so how’s life_

Castiel sketched a very incomplete picture of what was happening at work (he knew from personal experience that his work was very boring to outsiders). He said he’d been swimming a lot, walking on the beach, and then he sucked in a breath and wrote: _I’ve spent a great deal of time worrying about you. Even if I haven’t been visiting_. 

There was a very long pause; Castiel felt like he’d confessed something very important, very intimate. 

Dean didn’t respond to that directly; Castiel felt he’d forced some kind of intimacy on the other man, and regretted it profoundly. But it was true: he’d been worried since he’d met Dean. He snapped at his assistants, lay awake at night and questioned every decision he’d made about Dean’s medical care. 

_check it out_ , texted Dean. He’d sent a picture of a small tower he’d built out of blister packs. 

Castiel grinned at his phone. _Very nice_. 

_these pills taste disgusting. until now i didn’t even know pills had flavors_

Castiel contemplated a frowning emoticon but decided against it. _That’s very unfortunate_. 

“You text like you’re fifty,” Gabriel had said at the last family dinner--a terrible, monthly affair that was mandatory for Castiel but apparently completely optional for his siblings, often leaving Castiel with nothing but his angry father and his elitist mother.

“If I just saw your texts, I would think you were fifty,” Gabriel had continued, pointing at Castiel with a silver fork. 

“Please don’t gesture with your silverware,” their mother had said. Her voice was always soft and lilting; as a child Castiel found it soothing, but now it grated. 

At the time Castiel hadn’t been particularly bothered by Gabriel’s proclamation. Gabriel was flighty, high-maintenance; who cared what he had to say? But at that moment, staring at texts from Dean, contemplating an _emoticon_ , he wouldn’t have minded texting like he was thirty. Or maybe twenty-eight. Dean was only twenty-five. Was thirty too old to lust after twenty-five year olds?

Well, even if it was: too late. 

They talked for another half hour, about how nice the beach was, how it was warming up, how Dean was hoping for another fifteen minutes outside any day now, how incredibly tall Ethridge was ( _why is that guy even a doctor? too smart for the NBA?_ ) and Grange’s choice of footwear ( _i know it’s like a law that medical people wear ugly shoes but holy shit)._

Castiel made (and immediately regretted) a promise to visit the next day. 

_alright man_ , Dean finally said. _i gotta get some sleep. see ya tomorrow_

Castiel left his phone on the bedside table, the volume as high as possible. Just in case Dean needed him in the night. 

***

The next morning Castiel was confronted with his promise to visit. He badly wanted to keep it, to walk downstairs and hold Dean’s hand, refresh his memory of Dean’s eyes, tell him to his face that he was happy for his recovery. Just look at Dean for a while. 

But pheromones were pheromones, and Dean was particularly alluring. Castiel was terrified of showing up for a visit with tented pants. What would he say? “I’m a healthy alpha, after all!” 

And there weren’t any anti-erection pills on the market; he’d looked for nearly an hour that morning, frantically googling, feverishly contemplating a trip to the Darknet or a call to Gabriel. For better or for worse, this seemed like the sort of thing Gabriel might know about. 

But calling Gabriel would mean explaining why he had an alpha and two doctors living in his house--a conversation he was quite happy to avoid. 

He sighed and stepped into his closet. 

He was straightening his tie when his phone buzzed. 

_hey Cas, when you comin to visit_

He sighed.

“I can’t come visit, actually,” he could send. “I was already incredibly attracted to you and I can no longer contain myself. I’m so sorry, Dean. But I have thought specifically of you every time I have masturbated for the past month.” 

It was true: in hot showers, knocking his head against the tile when he came. In his bedroom in the city, when he’d had to go home for a few days; in his bedroom here, early in the morning when he woke up desperate. And once, guiltily, in the bedroom he’d come to think of as Dean’s. It was only a matter of time before he despoiled his office. 

His phone vibrated insistently.

_cas?_

Castiel closed his eyes and shook his head. There was nothing for it. 

_Hello Dean_ , he typed carefully. _I’m sorry, but I can’t visit today. An emergency meeting has been called. Fortunately I can attend it virtually, but it will no doubt be very, very long._

The emergency meeting wasn’t a lie. He didn’t wear suits at the beach unless it was absolutely necessary. But he may have exaggerated the length of said meeting. 

He didn’t hear back. He hadn’t really expected to. He wanted to see Dean, to hear his voice again, to know that he really was recovering. But Sam was here to keep him company--it wasn’t like he was alone. And the nurse, Jess. She was here too. Sam liked her a lot, had practically crowed when he announced that he’d gotten her number. 

“She is _incredibly_ smart,” Sam had said proudly. “And when we’re both back in the city, we are going on a date.” 

Castiel had given him a thumbs up (and had immediately felt ridiculous). He was glad that Sam was happy. He was probably down there right now, making eyes at Jess. 

He wouldn't go visit. Castiel would be poor company, anyway. Distracted, a bad conversation partner. Not to mention prone to acute arousal when in the company of the older Winchester. 

Dean was fine without him. 

***

Two days passed before he heard anything else from Dean. He tried to text him a few times, even once tried to call him, but was met with a stonewalling silence. 

And then, one night shortly after dinner: _hey cas?_

_Yes, Dean?_

_it’s cool that I call you cas, right?_

In fact Castiel loved the nickname, and felt something warm in his chest every time Dean used it. But he just said, _Of course. I would tell you if it weren’t._

_true. sometimes i forget._

_What do you forget?_

_sometimes you seem, you know, shy and quiet and like you wouldn’t tell anyone if you didn’t like a nickname. but then there was that one day, in the hospital. and sammy says you sound terrifying on your business calls. idk if you know this but you can be pretty take charge_

Castiel frowned. _I’ll admit to being firm, but I hope I’m not terrifying._

_and then you’re here and you’re barefoot all the time and you wear jeans and it’s like, is this the real cas? or is this fake cas, and the real cas is terrifying?_

Castiel ran his hand through his hair. He hadn’t really anticipated having any conversations about the complicated duality of his life with anyone. Especially not Dean Winchester. 

He typed: _At work I need to be a certain way. When I first started, I tried to be softer. I wanted to be friends with my staff. My father is a frightening boss. I didn’t want to be like that. But I learned the hard way that what I wanted was impossible. Perhaps because of my last name. I learned to be firm and arrogant. I learned how to get my way. I wish you had never seen that side of me. I wish you had met me here, away from work. This is who I am, Dean. I hope you like who I am._

Castiel stared at what he’d typed, then deleted it entirely. 

_Gooodnight Dean_ , he said. His chest felt concave, sunken. He turned off the phone. 

There was an apology, received at 3:45 a.m.: _hey, cas. i’m sorry if i overstepped._

***

They talked the next day about Castiel’s bizarre lack of interest in music--when Castiel had disclosed that he did enjoy opera in certain moods, Dean had threatened to never speak to him again. 

_it was bad enough finding out that you’ve never been to a diner_ , Dean had said.

Dean explained why he worked construction: _i get to be outside. in some ways i really like it. wouldn’t mind if it paid more._ Castiel’s fingers itched to offer some kind of bogus position (“Construction Consultant to the President,” perhaps, a desk down the hall from Castiel’s) but restrained himself. 

_sammy’s the genius_ , said Dean. 

Castiel wanted to argue that Dean was plenty smart, that he was quick and funny and anyway Sam was just a different kind of intelligence, the kind that more readily lent itself to prestigious diplomas and postgraduate degrees. 

But he didn’t get a chance. Dean kept texting: _and you’re pretty fuckin smart. i googled your company_

That wasn’t especially pleasing. Castiel was in charge of a real estate conglomerate that had survived and thrived by pure ruthlessness--most often his fathers, but sometimes Castiel’s. 

_i guess you’re making real bank, huh_

Castiel felt a twinge of annoyance. As much as he appreciated Dean’s forthright way of communicating, he didn’t feel particularly inclined to discuss his financials with anyone. He settled on the party line, the thing he said when people needled him at cocktail parties. 

_I’m very fortunate_. 

Dean seemed to take it for a dismissal, for which Castiel was somewhat grateful. 

Thirty minutes later Dean sent another text. 

_sammy says i was pretty out of line with the whole money question._

A pause. 

_ok i totally knew i was out of line. i’m not an idiot--not all the time at least--and i have some manners. anyway i’m sorry and i don’t even know why i brought it up, its weird and boring down here and_

“And”? Castiel waited to see if Dean finished his sentence. 

_i just wanted to know more about your life but that was not the way to do it_

_Thank you for your apology_ , responded Castiel. _No harm done_. 

Thank you for wanting to know more about my life, he wanted to say. But he didn’t. 

***

Dean called later that night. Castiel dropped the phone in his excitement, but managed to answer before it stopped ringing. 

“Hey,” he said. It sounded like he was smiling. 

Castiel smiled too. “Hello, Dean.” 

Dean laughed a little. “So, uh, I thought I didn’t have service down here. But apparently I do. And I thought maybe...we could talk?” 

“I’d like that,” said Castiel. “How are you feeling?” 

Dean groaned. “Like I really need people to stop asking me what I’m feeling.” 

“That’s understandable. What did you do today?” 

“Well, I spent three hours watching monster truck clips. Very impressed by their wide-ranging YouTube presence.” It sounded like he was sitting down. “How about you? Green-light any skyscrapers?” 

Castiel laughed; it wasn’t far from the truth. “I had some meetings,” he said. “I took the afternoon off. I went for a swim.” 

“I’m jealous,” said Dean. “Wouldn’t mind a day on the beach.” He paused. “But at least they’re letting me open the windows now.” 

“That room has a decent view, if I recall correctly.” 

“Pretty good, yeah. You can see a lot of ocean. I was afraid I’d end up in a basement--I think a lot of people stick their heat rooms in the basement. Then I remembered that this is a beach house.” 

“I’ve been in a few beach houses with basements,” Castiel said. He felt like an idiot--why were they talking about basements? “But they do flood often.” 

The conversation was dragging. Castiel was scrambling to come up with a new topic. “What’s so compelling about monster truck videos?” 

“Ah, yeah. I mean, you’re familiar with monster trucks, right?” 

Castiel was pulling up a video on his new monitor. Something called the Grave Digger. 

“Like the Grave Digger?” he asked. 

“Woah, Cas. Hidden depths!”

“The internet just told me that,” Castiel said sheepishly, selecting a video. He hadn’t expected Dean to be so excited. 

“Still, though,” said Dean. It sounded like he was shrugging; Castiel could imagine the face he was making, a sort of easy dismissiveness, devoid of any judgment. “It’s cool that you even looked it up. Anyway, they crush stuff. And they jump over things. It’s actually really dumb. Actually, don’t look it up. Just imagine that I spent four hours studying endangered mammals or something.” 

An impossibly large truck was wheeling out into a giant dirt arena. Castiel turned up the volume, then quickly muted it. Monster trucks were very loud. 

“I don’t think I care for them,” said Castiel. “But I’m glad you were able to find a distraction.” 

“Yeah. Bored out of my mind isn’t a great look for me.” 

Castiel nodded and pushed away from his desk. “Sam mentioned that you are prone to restlessness.” 

“I just like to be doing something. I feel like I haven’t done anything for a month. I keep thinking about everything I could’ve done.” 

“You’ve been getting well,” said Castiel. “That’s very important.” 

“You sound like Grange.” 

“Dr. Grange is very knowledgeable.” 

“Yeah. I like her. I trust her. But I wouldn’t be very upset if I were a hundred miles away from her. Kinda wish I’d never even heard of the Hamptons.”

Castiel chose not to take that personally. “I thought about getting a house elsewhere,” said Castiel. “Somewhere new. But I have a lot of good memories here. I’m sorry you don’t feel the same.”

And he was sorry. He wished Dean’s trip here had been all lazy days on the beach. A stripe of sunburn across Dean’s nose; freckles on his broad shoulders. 

“Yeah, well--it hasn’t been all bad, I guess. Sam met Jess, and they’re definitely getting married, I’m calling it right now. And--I’ve gotten to know you.” He paused; Castiel opened his mouth to say something, but Dean rushed in to fill the silence. “Not to mention all the sex ed talks I’ve had with Grange. A real treat.” 

Castiel laughed. “I’m glad to know you, too, Dean,” he said. He couldn’t just let that go, even if Dean wanted to force past it.

There were things Castiel wanted Dean to say: _I wish you were here with me_. _Do you want me? I want you. I think about your mouth. I also think about how to make you happy, which is much harder to say._

Neither one of them said each other for a long time--Castiel listened to Dean breathe and crossed the room to lie on the bed. 

Castiel knew how he was during sex: authoritative, dominant, a classic alpha. He wondered if he could get away with that now, imagined himself issuing stern commands, telling Dean to touch himself, to close his eyes and think of Castiel. 

But he didn’t want to be that with Dean. Not now, anyway. 

He imagined being with Dean in a different way, something caring and soft, something loving. And if there could be more, if he could have Dean, perhaps he could have him different ways: on his knees, blindfolded. Collared. 

Castiel sighed. These thoughts are not helpful, he told himself. That is not within the scope of reality. 

“Cas?” 

Castiel stilled his hand. “Yes?” 

“What are you doing?” 

“I am--I’m thinking about you,” Castiel said honestly.

He thought he heard Dean lick his lips. “Yeah?” 

“Yes. I am thinking about your--” He panicked. How had he thought this would go? “Your, ah, desire to be productive,” he finally said. He’d never been this embarrassed over the phone. 

“Oh,” said Dean. Did he sound disappointed? “Yeah, I mean--that’s one of the things I like about construction, you know? You see what you’ve made. Sometimes it takes awhile for it to really look like _something_ , but you see it, every day, inch by inch.” 

“Do you go up high? The tall buildings?” 

“Yeah, pretty high up. I spend a lot of time in a harness.” 

Castiel was thinking of something else to say when Dean spoke up. 

“What floor is your office on?” 

“The ninetieth.” 

“I’ve been up that high.” 

“That’s...very high. I’m glad you’re safe.” 

Dean chuckled. “Like I said, we wear harnesses. It’s not bad once you get used to it.” 

“I don’t think I’d get used to that.” 

“That’s fine,” said Dean. “You’re needed inside the building. Do you like your office?” 

Castiel hummed. “Not particularly. It was my father’s.” 

“You could decorate.” 

“He still comes in regularly, and I think he would be insulted if I didn’t keep it as it was. Plus,” said Castiel, “it’s very much one imagines a CEO’s office should be. Overlarge, expensively furnished, an excessive desk, contemporary artwork.” 

“You don’t like contemporary artwork?” 

“I prefer landscapes.” 

Dean laughed. “We are very different people, Cas.” 

“I hope that isn’t a bad thing,” said Castiel, regretting that he’d ever brought up art. He was pathologically afraid of seeming pretentious. 

“It’s not,” said Dean. “It’s not.” 

They talked a little longer--mostly about skyscrapers and old photographs of construction workers sitting on high steel beams, eating their lunches. 

“I had a teacher with that on her wall. It’s kind of what got me into the whole thing, honestly.” 

They talked about Sam and Jess, about how she was going with Sam to someone’s wedding next weekend. Neither of them remembered the couple’s names. Castiel told Dean about family dinner and confessed that one of his greatest joys was ordering a new suit. 

“I don’t even really like wearing them,” he said. “But you get to pick the fabric--” 

“Pretty sure that’s a rich people thing. Only suits I’ve ever worn were bought off the rack.” 

Castiel chided himself for bringing up bespoke suits--then had the impulse to invite Dean to get a suit--they could go to London, even, to Castiel’s favorite tailor. But then he caught himself. 

“I’m sorry, Dean,” he said. “I’m not trying to…” 

“I know you’re not trying to tell me how rich you are, Cas. For one thing, I already know. For another, you’re just a nerd who likes landscapes and opera and suits. Honestly, I think it’s just your personality.” 

There was a long lull, then Dean mentioned how he’d been able to see Cas out the window that day, swimming past the break. 

“Honestly it was kind of mesmerizing,” he said, sounding a little dreamy. “You’re a really good swimmer. Or at least you look like one.” 

Castiel felt warm. “Years of practice,” he said. 

They hung up after midnight, exchanging overlong, whispery goodbyes. Castiel lay in bed and considered how strange it was, that they should be so different and yet conversation could come so easily. They misinterpreted one another occasionally, but most often Dean made Castiel feel understood. 

***

Dean texted the next morning at 10 a.m. 

_i was wondering something_

_What were you wondering?_

_its pretty embarrassing_

_I won’t laugh._

It was a moment before Dean continued. 

_they say my heat’ll be here any day. i think they might actually have some kind of countdown clock across the hall. heat doctors are weird. but yeah i was wondering if i could have a favor. you know on top of all the other favors you’ve done_

_What would you like from me, Dean?_

There was a very, very long pause, a series of dots that disappeared and reappeared multiple times. Cas hoped Dean didn’t regret asking. Maybe he should say something else, should say that he would be happy to give Dean anything, anything he wanted. But that would be too much. 

Finally Dean wrote back: _well I’ve heard that alpha scent is helpful during a heat. obviously I’ve never had the chance to try it myself but I was thinking maybe you could...give me a shirt. like a tshirt? you could wear it. and then you could give it to me._

Cas was so aroused he was dizzy. He thought of Dean nuzzling into one of his undershirts, fisting his hand in the fabric while he touched himself. Dean breathing Cas in, thinking of Cas when he came. 

Dear god. He was going to die of arousal. He took a sip of water. 

Cas wanted to say that Dean didn’t need a shirt, that he’d come down there himself, hand-feed him and fuck him and give him everything he needed. 

But instead he typed, _I’m happy to help. I’ll have it down to you by the end of the day_. 


	7. Chapter 7

Dean’s heat started more or less the moment he touched Castiel’s shirt.

“Holy shit,” he breathed. His skin felt like it was actually sizzling. “Holy shit.” 

He held the shirt against his face, too hot and desperate to feel embarrassed, and tried not to think about what his body was starting to do. 

Grange stuck her head in the door like Dean’s arousal had summoned her.

Which--gross. 

“Things seem to me moving along,” she said, crossing to Dean’s beside. She pressed a cool hand to his wrist. “Your temperature is significantly elevated.” 

She glanced at the clothing Dean was clenching, but was kind enough not to say anything.

“How are you feeling, other than hot? Aroused?” 

Dean nodded. Okay, he was still capable of embarrassment. 

“Anything unpleasant happening? Any pain, nausea?” 

Dean shook his head. He wanted to tell her to get the fuck out. And maybe come back with Castiel. 

She made a few notes--where did they keep these clipboards?--and then, mercifully, left. She dimmed the lights on the way out.

“I’ll be back in to check on you soon,” she said. “Which I realize isn’t ideal, but is very necessary.” She smiled at Dean. “Congratulations on your first heat.” 

She closed the door firmly behind her. 

Dean wondered if he could break the door down. Rush upstairs, find Castiel, demand that they fuck. And if Castiel refused he’d start knocking on doors. He could find someone. 

This was _terrible_. 

***

In the next two hours were easily the most humiliating of Dean’s life: his slick came in with such ferocity that his sheets had to be changed twice, he attempted to hump _both_ of the chairs in the heat room, and he discovered that during a heat, the only way to be comfortable was to be _completely fucking naked._ Even underwear itched. 

“This is terrible,” he huffed at Grange. She came in to check on him at least every hour. Dean was pretty sure that she wanted to get a sample of slick, but no fucking way was he allowing that. A man’s slick was his own. 

“It’s not always pleasant,” said Grange. “I’m sorry we can’t offer you any sedatives. But we can’t interfere--” 

“What about an alpha? Why don’t you offer me a fucking alpha?” 

She frowned. Dean was pacing, completely nude, very obviously insane. He didn’t even care if Grange could see his dick; she’s the one who chose to study omega heats. 

“This is too delicate a time for partner sex,” she said, very carefully. “We have to know how your body handles _just_ heat. No partner. But there are toys,” she gestured to the various silicone cocks Dean had thrown around the room. 

“Pretty sure that you know those who don't do shit, Doc.” Dean collapsed in a chair that he was sure he’d already ruined. “Just leave me alone.” 

***

Dean had always thought that heat made you into some kind of mindless fuck machine, like you couldn’t think about anything else and that it was okay because it meant that you’d get what you needed and goddamn the consequences and everyone would forgive you, because heat. 

This did not square with Dean’s personal experience. 

Dean’s personal experience was that heat made you painfully horny and hot and yeah you felt pretty desperate for a lay, but there was nothing rage fuck machine-y about it. Dean was perfectly coherent; he just happened to also be profoundly aroused, very hot, and incredibly frustrated.

A friend had once told Dean that when she was in heat, she couldn’t even manage to work a cell phone. 

Dean, on the other hand, spent an exhaustively researching Castiel, scrolling through a profile of the Novaks and the transcript of a commencement address Castiel had given the year before. Mr. Castiel Novak--Harvard MBA, CEO, philanthropist--seemed well-respected in the business world. There were also pictures: Castiel in khakis at a charity golf tournament, standing behind an enormous leather chair, shaking hands with his father on the day he was officially named CEO. The Novak family home had been featured in multiple home interior magazines. 

He regretted the research, all of which reminded him of exactly how opposed his and Castiel’s worlds were. Castiel had country clubs and the opera, Dean had action movie DVDs and his shitty apartment.

Dean’s phone buzzed with a text from Castiel, but Dean didn’t even read it. He was suddenly furious and ashamed; his skin felt itchier than earlier, even hotter. He felt nothing but contempt for himself, crushing on some billionaire alpha who’d probably had a thousand omegas in his bed. Castiel was probably just indulging him, the poor little omega who fucked up his heats. They’d never speak to one another after this. And why did that hurt so much?

He wanted to cry, but the tears wouldn’t come. He threw his phone across the room. 

***

Grange came in shortly after the phone-throwing. 

“Dean?” 

Dean grunted. He was curled in a corner. The floor was cool. He was trying to cry--maybe it would be some kind of release. 

Grange knelt down next to him. 

“You’re torturing me,” whispered Dean. “You’re actually torturing me. I can’t do this.” 

“You _can,_ Dean. It will be better after tomorrow. Less intense. And the day after that, even less. And,” she said, “Mr. Novak has sent down some more clothes. He wanted to come himself, but--” 

“But I’d pin him to the bed. Yeah, I know.” Dean struggled to his feet, refusing Grange’s assistance. Dean thought about saying he didn’t that he didn’t want the clothes, but Castiel’s scent was impossible to resist. 

“I’ll be right back,” said Grange. Dean heaved himself onto the bed. 

She returned with a garment bag holding a suit, three dress shirts, and a blue tie Dean was fairly certain he’d seen before. Grange had another box tucked under her arm. She put it down on the bed and Dean peeked inside. 

More T-shirts. And a pair of socks. 

“Oh _no_ ,” Dean moaned. “Am I into foot smells too?” 

Grange smirked. “Heat is a strange time.” 

There were jeans in the box, worn and impossibly soft. 

“Take these back to him,” Dean said, holding them out. “They’ve got to be his favorites. I can feel it.” 

Grange smiled a little and folded them under one arm. “Of course.” She sighed. “You could benefit from a cool shower--not cold. And I hope all of this will help.” 

The smell of Castiel was making Dean a little woozy; he dumped on the box on the bed. 

Grange closed the door behind her. 

***

Dean’s feelings of inferiority and didn’t go away, but he revelled in the gifts of Castiel’s clothes all the same, his mind see-sawing between the idea that Castiel might like him, really like him, their differences be damned--and the idea that this was all just pity. 

Fuck it, he told himself, and pressed his face into Castiel’s gray pinstripe. 

***

Dean contemplated sending Castiel a text to thank him for the clothes, but concluded that it was too embarrassing. He did want to talk to him though--or text him, at least, because Dean couldn’t be sure that hearing Castiel’s voice wouldn’t send him into some kind of heat fit. 

What he wanted to do was ask stupid questions. Had Castiel ever dated someone with a net worth below twenty million? Did he send those clothes because he felt sorry for Dean? 

But instead he teased Castiel about his multiple _Businessweek_ appearances. 

_Oh, no._

_there was a v good pic of you at a golf tournament?_

_Please ignore it._

_yea you’re wearing a visor or something_

_I have never worn a visor in my life!_

_pretty sure it was a visor, cas._

Castiel didn’t say anything back; Dean braced himself and sent another text: _no worries_ , said Dean. _you always look good_. 

Then he shoved his phone under his pillow.

***

When Dean woke up the next morning--less slick-y, but still hot--he found a text from Castiel, sent at 4:31 am. 

_Dean. When you are cleared for excursions, would you like to join me for lunch? There is a place nearby that is a personal favorite_. 

Dean grinned at his phone, imagining Castiel awake until past 3 a.m., figuring how to word the invitation. 

_sounds great_

***

Two days later he was coming down from his heat. His numbers were very good, they assured him. Better than expected. He didn’t appear to have ruined himself with heat suppressants. 

Dean was relieved, but still frustrated. 

“Irritability is common post-heat,” Grange had said, bagging up all the clothes from Castiel. Dean had snatched a pair of socks to keep. “Just hydrate and eat. You’ll feel better soon.” 

So Dean drank water, crunched on carrots, and took about fifty showers. 

Two days later he did feel better--rested, clear-eyed, _clean_ \--and Grange told him that he was free to explore. 

“We’re coming to the end of our time together, Dean,” she said, smiling. “I’m sure you’re devastated.” 

***

Castiel called that night. Heat or no, his voice still made Dean feel shivery. 

“Hiya Cas.”

“How are you feeling?” 

“Really good. Really, really good. Apparently I aced first heat.”

“So I heard. I’m very, very happy for you.” 

Dean cleared his throat. “Yeah, thanks. And, uh--thanks again, Cas. For everything.” 

“I was happy to help,” said Castiel. Dean allowed himself a small smile. It really sounded like he meant it. 

“We still on for lunch? It's been way too long since I ate something fried.” 

“Yes, of course. I look forward to it.” 

Dean caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, grinning like a kid on Christmas. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> time 4 sex

They went out to lunch a few days later. Sam was going to join them but begged off; he was working remotely. 

“Bullshit. He's in there talking to Jess,” said Dean, watching Sam practically skip his way inside the house. “No one is that happy about getting back to work.” 

They took Castiel’s beach car, a 1965 Mercury Comet. 

“Uh,” said Dean, holding up his hands. “How--how did no one tell me this was here?” 

Castiel was holding down a button, watching the top retract. 

“Seriously, man.” Dean ducked down to look inside. “Is that the original interior?” 

Castiel nodded. He wanted to grin; he had wanted Dean to like the car. “My grandmother took very good care of Velma.” 

Dean raised his eyebrows. “Gotta say, Cas. Didn’t really figure you were the kind of guy who named cars.” 

“My grandmother named her.” 

“Ah,” said Dean, nodding. “Well. Whatever her name is, this is an excellent car. Can I drive?” 

Cas snorted. The top was down and stowed away; he opened the driver’s side door. 

“Absolutely not.”

***

Dean whined most of the drive to Collie’s. 

“I am an _excellent_ driver,” he said, staring out the window. They were passing an old lighthouse. “Really fantastic. And I haven’t driven a car in”--he did some mental calculations--“two months.” He sat up quickly. “Oh my god. I have to pay the garage rent. I didn’t even--oh my _god_ , the Impala--” 

“I paid it,” Castiel. “I paid six months. Sam mentioned it.” 

Castiel was ready for an argument, something along the lines of _I can pay my own fucking bills, Novak_ , but nothing came. 

“Thank you,” Dean said eventually, sounding pained. “I’ll pay you back.” 

Castiel didn’t bother telling him that he didn’t need to, that Castiel was happy to help. That Castiel was getting to the point that he’d be happy to take care of Dean forever. 

He stared resolutely at the road. Dean leaned toward the radio. 

“Generally I support a firm ‘driver chooses the music’ policy,” said Dean, turning the old tuning knob. “But since I _should_ be driving--” 

Castiel was smiling. He’d started to find Dean’s absurdities rather charming. “It’s fine.” He watched Dean struggling for a minute. “Classic rock is 95.3.” 

“Oh man,” said Dean, grinning hugely. “You’re the best.” He turned the dial; something loud and vaguely seventies-sounding started blasting through Velma’s speakers. 

Castiel didn’t bother mentioning that he’d looked up local classic rock stations after a very one-sided conversation on the subject of Led Zeppelin, which started with Dean complaining about the lacking experience of listening to _Led Zeppelin II_ on earbuds and ended with Dean’s multi-paragraph manifesto on the eternal and inarguable superiority of classic rock. 

In addition to seeking out classic radio stations, Cas had ordered a selection of high-quality headphones and a very significantly priced bluetooth speaker. 

Dean held his hand out the window, let the wind catch his palm. 

“I’ve decided I like being chauffeured.” 

***

Collie’s was more crowded than Castiel liked, but it was the inevitable result of summer. They ordered at the counter, then went to get a table; Castiel had just spotted one by a window when an older alpha called his name.

“This is Bobby,” Dean told Castiel. “He’s an old friend. And a very good lighthouse keeper.” 

Bobby huffed. “Not much to keep at a defunct lighthouse. But I appreciate the compliment.” 

Dean held out a hand and the older man shook it warmly. “Always a pleasure to meet a friend of Castiel’s,” he said. He winked at Dean; Castiel blushed. “Doesn’t happen very often.” 

They were standing in the middle of the restaurant, blocking traffic in two directions. 

“I’m gonna grab that table,” said Dean. “Nice meeting you, Bobby.” 

Bobby nodded. He turned to Castiel and held up a key. 

“As requested,” he said, winking. Castiel tucked it safely into his pocket. 

“Good luck.” Bobby grinned. “I’m happy for you, Castiel.” 

Castiel watched him leave, then headed toward Dean. 

***

They both had fried shrimp, hot and fresh, with a surprisingly delicate breading. They lingered after the meal. 

“Not gonna lie,” said Dean, looking out over the ocean. “I was pretty sure that the Hamptons was nothing but rich people.” 

Castiel shrugged. “There’s a lot of money here. But there are also a lot of locals. My grandmother preferred the off-season, so we got to know the people who live here year-round.” 

Dean nodded. “It’s nice.” He studied Castiel. “It’s very nice.” 

Castiel felt himself blush. 

Dean kept going. “I kind of figured you never took your suit off. And I never figured you for the kind of guy who was into cheap seafood on the pier.” 

Castiel nodded. “We came here often when I was young. It’s one of my favorite places.” 

“Yeah,” said Dean. “I would’ve thought your favorite place was the Eiffel Tower or something. I’m--glad to be wrong. And I am _never_ glad to be wrong.” 

They grinned at each other for a moment, then both looked away blushing. Dean took a big gulp from his glass. “So,” he said. “Where’s your name from? I’ve never heard ‘Castiel’ in my life.”

“Angel of Thursday,” said Castiel. 

Dean raised his eyebrows. “Religious family, huh?” 

Castiel shrugged. “Not especially. I think my mother just likes the idea of angels. My brother is Gabriel, which is a bit more heavy-handed.” 

Dean nodded. “Yeah.” He paused; he seemed to be weighing everything he said. “I’m named after my grandmother. Deanna.” 

“Dean is a good name,” said Castiel. A server refilled his water, greeting Castiel by name.

They sat in silence for a few moments, Castiel drinking his water, Dean scrutinizing his leftover french fries. Castiel wondered if perhaps the outing may have been a bad idea. 

Dean looked up; Castiel replaced his glass on the table, the ice shifting noisily. “You surf?” 

“Not since I was a child. But I believe Anna still enjoys it.” 

“That’s your…?” 

“My sister.” 

“It doesn’t sound like you’re very close with Gabriel and Anna.” 

“We’re very different. Anna is an artist, and what you could call a drifter. I believe she’s in Costa Rica these days. Gabriel is...ridiculous.” 

Dean shrugged. “I’m sure you can be ridiculous, from time to time.” 

“Yes, I suppose so,” said Castiel, thinking of the monitor he’d thrown at the wall. “I guess we call can.” 

***

That night, Castiel took Dean to the lighthouse. 

“Woah,” said Dean, jogging up the stairs. “Do you own this place?” 

Castiel shook his head. “No. But Bobby takes care of it. He loaned me the key.” 

“So this is sort of a special occasion, huh?” 

Castiel smiled; it was special. He nodded and started up the stairs. 

“I love this place,” said Castiel. He wanted to say that he was so happy to share it with Dean, that he wanted so much for Dean to like it, but he didn’t have the nerve. 

Dean leaned on the railing. It was past eight, the sun nearly set. They’d brought a blanket; Castiel unfolded it and took a seat. He’d seen the view a thousand times--now he just wanted to watch Dean. 

After a few long moments Dean sat down next to Castiel, so close their legs were pressed together. Castiel felt a little breathless.

Dean took a deep breath. He was staring resolutely out at the ocean. “You know, I normally don’t feel uncertain about this sort of thing. Never in my life. But with you…” 

Castiel waited for him to finish but he stayed quiet. “What sort of thing, Dean?”

Dean laughed a little, but it was frustrated, maybe irritated. “If you--if I had to guess, I’d say you don’t take just anybody out for a nighttime lighthouse hang out. I’d say you really liked that gray suit, so you probably wouldn't have given it to just anyone.” He pushed a hand through his hair. “And honestly if it were anyone else I’d just be like ‘fuck it’ and push you up against a wall or something, but for some reason with you I feel completely out of my depth.” 

Castiel wanted to talk, wanted to say anything, but he felt completely frozen. 

“I’m a sure thing, Cas,” Dean said. He was looking at Castiel now, speaking with urgency. “I’m such a sure thing. I am a sure fucking thing. You’re the mystery.” 

Castiel pressed his hand against Dean’s lips. “If you are asking if I want you, Dean Winchester--then yes. I want you. I want you entirely. I am frightened of how much I want you. I--” 

But he didn’t get a chance to finish; Dean’s mouth was on his, a gentler kiss that Castiel had expected--but no less intense. 

After a moment of breathlessness, Dean pulled back. “Cas,” he whispered. He kissed Castiel again, then pulled back. “Tell me how much you want me, Cas. Tell me--”

But then he covered Castiel’s mouth with his own, something hotter now, more intentional. Castiel curved his hand around the back of Dean’s neck.

Castiel had never really liked kissing. It was part of the reason why he preferred escorts--he didn’t like the exhausting work of seduction, the requirement of gradual escalation. 

But Dean had been different in more ways than one. It had been years since Castiel had seriously considered sex with an omega he didn’t pay. And he wasn’t sure he had ever wanted anyone like he wanted Dean. 

Kissing Dean, he wanted everything.

“I want to hold you in the night,” he said, licking up Dean’s neck, pressing gentle teeth into his ear lobe. Dean groaned. “You don’t even know--” 

“Tell me,” Dean said, almost growled. “Tell me what you want.” 

Castiel breathed in a shaky, uncertain sigh. Dean pressed closer to his ear. “Please,” he whispered. 

“At first I just wanted to fuck you,” said Castiel honestly, closing his eyes and focusing on Dean’s hands sliding up his back. “I felt terrible about it--you were in the hospital. But you--” 

Castiel stopped in embarrassment. Dean hummed. 

“You are,” he tried again. His chest hurt, even as his body relaxed into Dean. 

“What am I?” Dean’s voice was an intimate murmur. “Tell me more, Cas,” he said, ghosting a hand over Castiel’s cock. “You know I like to watch you swim. You know I like the smell of you, that I want you to fuck me through a heat. Tell me…” 

“I had to stay away from you, all this time. I wanted to visit. But I knew I’d want you too much--I imagined doing the things an alpha does for _his_ omega--” 

Dean sucked in a breath. Castiel kept going, afraid to lose his nerve. 

“I could feed you strawberries, fresh pineapple. Hold chilled cloths to the back of your neck. Carry you into the shower--I could--” 

“You could fuck me,” said Dean, nosing at Castiel’s temple, raising goosebumps on Castiel’s skin. 

“Oh,” said Castiel. “ _Yes_ ,” he said, licking his lips. “I could.”

Dean found Castiel’s mouth, and they were both silent. 

Castiel felt his embarrassment fade to a distant buzz. He didn’t have to say anything else; they could be quiet in the dark. They pulled off each other’s shirts in a clumsy tangle of arms and cotton. Dean’s smell was stronger now; Castiel laid him down and pressed their cocks together. He could feel Dean’s heat even through the denim. He leaned forward and wrapped his hands around Dean’s wrists. 

“I want your mouth, Dean. I want your mouth and your hands and your cock.” His words were a whispered rush. He ground his hips against Dean’s; the other man whimpered a little and arched his back. 

“I have thought of you--I have touched myself, thinking of you--thinking only of you--again and again and again. I want to own you, Dean. I want--” 

“ _Take off my pants_ ,” Dean gritted out. “If you’re going to keep talking like that--and don’t you dare stop--take off my pants before my cock falls off.” 

Castiel kissed him quickly and moved down to remove Dean’s shoes--he stroked the arch of his left foot and Dean jumped; Castiel smiled to himself. He pulled Dean’s jeans and underwear off, pressed a hand against his cock. Dean’s hips jerked. 

Suddenly, Castiel thought of something. “Have you ever had sex with an alpha?” 

“If by ‘sex’ you mean getting naked and blowing each other: yes. If you mean taking it up the ass? Ah, no.” 

Castiel frowned. “I--you understand that’s what I want? Not the blowing, but the--” 

Dean sat up and rolled his eyes. “Yes. And I want it, too. I want--you know.” 

“I need you to say it, Dean.” 

Dean huffed a little; Castiel was disappointed to see that his erection was flagging. 

“It’s mean to make me spell it out. Seriously, Cas. But yeah, I want--you know. The whole shebang. _Anal sex_. Okay, I said it.” 

“And a knot…?” 

“Fucking god, Castiel. Yes, okay. Yes, I would like you knot me into next week. There. Now you know. I kind of thought you already knew, but now you really know.” 

Castiel frowned. “I wanted to be sure, Dean. I don’t want any misunderstandings--” 

“I really need you to go back to the sexy stuff now. I believe you mentioned pineapple? And, uh, other stuff?” 

Castiel gently pushed Dean back onto the blanket. “Ownership,” he said, tilting his head, pitched his voice low. He scraped his hand down Dean’s chest. “I’ve never wanted an omega the way I want you, Dean. I’ve never wanted to own someone.” He hesitated. “I wish I could see you in my collar.” 

“I’d let you,” Dean half-whispered, half-whined. He sounded almost mystified. “Oh my god, I would _let you_.” 

Castiel smiled; his chest was warm with triumph. He stood up to take off his pants--he was painfully hard. Dean watched him hungrily, one hand loose on his cock, another in a tight fist. 

“I’m not going to fuck you tonight,” said Castiel, making a decision. He didn’t want to do that in a lighthouse. “But I’m going to make you feel very, very good.” He draped himself over Dean, lining up their mouths. Dean’s lips parted instantly; Castiel kissed him very, very carefully, memorizing the taste of him, noting the particular damp of Dean’s upper lip. 

“Tell me if you’re ever uncomfortable,” said Castiel. Dean nodded, his hands kneading Castiel’s thighs. 

Castiel moved down Dean’s body, dragging his open mouth down firm pectorals, defined abdominals. 

“Your body is magnificent,” Cas whispered. He was pressing a thumb into the hollow of Dean’s hip. “Your chest--and your arms,” he added, ghosting a hand down the flexing tendons of Dean’s forearms. “It’s a pleasure just to look at you. And now...” 

He carefully made his way down Dean’s legs, deliberately ignoring his weeping cock. Even Dean’s knees were lovely, and there was strength in all of him: his thighs, the perfect form of his left foot. 

Castiel was leaking now too, insistently hard, desperate to push inside of Dean. 

But that was for later. 

He moved back up Dean’s body and took a firm, determined hold on his cock. Dean shivered; he’d been mostly quiet and gasping while Castiel had explored his body, occasionally burying a hand in Castiel’s hair. 

“Open your legs for me,” said Castiel, pitching his voice intentionally low, almost a purr. 

He pumped Dean’s cock for a moment, swirled his tongue around the head. Dean gasped in disbelief--most alphas didn’t give blowjobs, but Castiel enjoyed using his mouth. 

“Have you ever had a tongue in your ass, Dean?” said Castiel, reaching farther between Dean’s legs to where it was wet and sticky and impossible hot.

Dean sounded like he was choking; Castiel traced a finger around Dean’s clenching hole. 

“I’ll take that as a no.” 

Dean shook his head; Castiel’s cock _throbbed_. It felt like Dean was completely untouched, entirely his for the taking. He swallowed hard and resumed speaking. 

“But it’s not the sort of thing I want to surprise you with,” he continued. “I want to taste you, Dean,” he said, his cool purr entirely gone. He sounded desperate. “I want to put my fingers--” 

“Yes,” said Dean. “Yes, fuck. Cas. Do it.” 

Castiel kissed Dean’s hip. “I need you to roll over.” 

Dean nodded and flipped over immediately. “Do I need to get on my knees?” 

“Mm,” said Castiel. “Yes, thank you.” 

Dean’s ass, like the rest of him, was perfect. Castiel kneaded it in his hands--the slick smelled stronger here--and pushed his thumb between the cheeks, pressing down. 

“Oh my god,” said Dean. “Oh my fucking--” 

Castiel pressed harder; the tip of his thumb dipped into Dean’s hole. He pulled it out and licked it.

“Holy shit,” said Dean, who had his head craned back to see. 

“Incredible,” said Castiel. He pulled Dean’s cheeks apart. “You’re perfect here. Everywhere.” 

Dean’s head hit the floor with a thunk. His hips were pushing a little against the floor but Castiel stopped him. 

“This is all I want you to feel,” he said.

Castiel had always enjoyed eating ass, even if he did it rarely. But he had never enjoyed it as much as he did now, pushing his tongue and fingers into Dean’s pulsing hole, Dean’s moans as loud and shameless as anything he did. 

“I think I could come from this,” he said breathlessly. “I actually think--oh my god. Oh my god, do that again or I’ll kill--” 

And then a high-pitched wail. Dean was shoving his ass into Castiel’s face, begging Castiel to fuck him--hard to refuse, but he’d made his decision, no matter how much they both wanted it. 

Dean jerked hard when Castiel found his prostate; he hit the floor with his fist and sounded like he was near tears. 

“I need to come, Cas,” he begged. “Please. You gotta let me come.” 

Castiel carefully withdrew his slick-soaked fingers from Dean’s ass. He started to stroke Dean’s cock, slowly and then, as Dean groaned and begged, faster. Dean’s hole tightened and released even more slick; Castiel pumped Dean’s cock until he collapsed, panting.

Castiel watched Dean breathe for a moment, then put a hand around his own insistent erection. Dean’s eyes were closed; he looked as if he were recovering from a very long footrace. 

Castiel cleared his throat. “Yeah?” said Dean, his voice hoarse. He propped himself up on his elbows and ogled Castiel’s straining cock. 

Castiel gestured vaguely to his crotch. “Would you mind if I--” 

“Cas,” Dean said firmly, dropping his head back to the floor. “After that, you can come on my eyeball.” 

***

They were still at the lighthouse an hour later. 

“You’re a sex god, Cas. You’re an actual sex god.” 

They were curled around each other on the blanket. They hadn’t dressed; the night was warm. 

“That’s very kind of you to say.” 

“‘That’s very kind of you to say,’” Dean mocked. “You can’t talk about sex compliments like that. You gotta say, ‘you bet I am, baby.’ Or like, ‘just wait ‘til next time.’” 

Cas lifted himself up on one elbow. He brushed Dean’s hair off of his face. “Will there be a next time?” 

Dean swallowed and gripped Cas’s hand. He nodded once. 

***

They tried to sneak back into the house at four a.m., but Castiel had forgotten the alarm code. 

”How do you forget your own alarm code?” Dean had hissed. “How is that even possible?” 

Abby had come running up from her cottage. “I’ve got it,” she said to Castiel, who was calling 911 to explain that it was not, in fact, an emergency. 

It had only taken her a second to punch in a code. Castiel took Dean by the hand and led him upstairs to the master bedroom. The sun was only starting to rise, and there was still a feeling of endless possibility. 

Castiel didn’t talk--the alarm had been jarring, aggressive, and he needed silence--but he turned on the shower, let the water warm a little before he pulled Dean under the spray. 

They jerked each other off slowly. 

“God. You look so good wet,” murmured Dean. Then he stepped back and dropped to his knees. 

Castiel felt his eyes widen.

“If you want,” said Dean, resting his hands on Castiel’s thighs. He looked oddly vulnerable--surely after everything, he didn’t think Castiel would refuse this?

Castiel could only nod. 

He watched transfixed as Dean expertly took him in, far past his teeth, into the warmest, softest part of his mouth. He felt the head of his dick push against the back of Dean’s throat; he hovered a hand over Dean’s ear, the hinge of his chin. Before he knew it his pleasure was cresting--he made some inscrutable noise and watched as Dean carefully replaced his mouth with his hand. When Cas came, it was all over Dean’s chest. 

Dean stood and pulled Castiel close, kissed him hard. When he leaned back he was grinning. “Yeah, you seemed pretty into the whole ‘come on Dean thing’ earlier so I thought--?” 

“It was wonderful,” said Castiel, pushing Dean against the tiles. “Let me--” 

“I actually--I already finished,” Dean said quickly, embarrassed. “You, uh--you look pretty good getting your dick sucked.” 

Castiel smiled. 

They bundled into towels, both exhausted. It was past five. 

There was an awkward moment when they stood at the foot of the bed. 

Castiel reminded himself that not seven hours previous he’d had his tongue in this man’s ass, and asking him to sleep in a large, comfortable bed was not an invasion. 

“You’re welcome to stay,” said Castiel, throwing back the covers. “It’s a very comfortable bed.” 

Dean looked at the doorway--for a second Castiel was cold with fear and embarrassment. But then he dropped his towel and slid into bed, pulling Castiel close.

“Let’s sleep,” he said, kissing the nape of Castiel’s neck. 

And they did.

***

Dean was gone when Castiel awoke at 10 a.m., which was disappointing but more or less anticipated. Castiel pulled on swim trunks and went out to swam laps, not stopping until his muscles were aching. 

He tried to reason with himself: Dean had to check in with Grange, Dean didn’t like sleeping in strange beds. But most likely, he suspected, Dean had just run. 

But for Castiel, last night had been a revelation--the sex, yes. But more than that it had felt as if he and Dean had crashed threw a barrier. That had been such intimacy. That was good, wasn’t it?

Not unless someone is terrified of intimacy, thought Castiel. Dean had been uninhibited last night, had begged for honesty, had confessed to wanting more. But now, in the clear light of day--god, Castiel had said he wanted to _collar_ him. 

“You’re an idiot,” said Castiel, floating on his back, glaring at the overcast sky. “You are an idiot.” 

***

He didn’t hear from Dean. He went downstairs a few times to find him, but he was always with Sam, or walking on the beach, or sleeping. 

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Novak,” Grange had said, and Castiel knew she meant it. 

Castiel had just nodded. Maybe he’d go back to the city. 

But he stayed: stayed and counted down the days until Dean inevitably left, said goodbye, was never seen again. 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> stay safe & effect change, everybody!

Dean didn’t have the nerve to see Castiel again.

Which wasn’t to say he didn’t want to--he wanted to talk to him, to smell him, to let Castiel do all kinds of incredibly hot sex things to him, because _the man was a sex god_. 

But he wanted a lot more than sex, too. And waking up in Cas’s gorgeous bedroom, in a giant bed with a giant window overlooking the sea, had reminded Dean of all the things he’d realized before: that Castiel was too far above him, too different, too impossible. He'd felt like an idiot and part of him had hated Castiel for that, even though the man hadn't deserved it. 

So Dean had fled--just to Castiel's basement, but he'd fled nonetheless. And he’d blocked Castiel’s number, asked Grange to say he was asleep, and ignored Sam’s pointed remarks about avoidance and being an asshole. 

So maybe Dean was an asshole. Fine. At least he wasn’t an asshole with a broken heart. 

***

It was only a few weeks after the night at the lighthouse that Dean was medically cleared to go home. He was thrilled: he’d been hiding on the first floor, terrified that he’d walk into the kitchen and see Castiel drinking a glass of water or fixing a sandwich or, fuck, baking an apple pie. 

Sam helped him pack. When his back was turned Dean shoved the saved pair of Castiel’s socks into his duffel. He suspected Sam might’ve noticed but was nice enough to pretend like he hadn’t seen anything. He shook hands with Ethridge, indulged Grange’s long, weepy hug--very sentimental for a scientist--flipped off the heat room, and headed upstairs. 

Castiel was by the front door. It had been so long since Dean had seen him in a suit he did a double-take. 

“Hey, Castiel.” It felt weird not using the nickname, but it was one of Dean’s new Cas Rules. 

“Dean. I came to see you out,” said Castiel. He looked hurt and uncomfortable. 

“Yeah, cool. I think we’re leaving now.” 

“I have something for you,” said Castiel, reaching into his breast pocket. “It’s--I hope it can be helpful.” 

Dean took the envelope and started to open it. 

Castiel held out a hand to stop him. “I was actually thinking you could open it later? Back at home, maybe.” 

Dean rolled his eyes. “No way.” He felt Castiel watching him carefully. 

The envelope contained a letter--which he ignored--and a check. A check for one million dollars, signed by Castiel Novak. 

Dean saw red. “What the--” 

“You haven’t been working,” said Castiel, talking fast. “I thought you could use it to get back on your feet--this has been hard, and--” 

“What the _fuck_ , Cas. What, you thought, ‘well, okay, he accepted the treatment, now I can just set him up for life, let me see what else he’ll take’? You think I can’t survive without you?” 

Dean ripped through the check until there were only tiny specks of confetti. He ignored the letter, let it flutter to the ground. He knew he was being irritational--not to mention terrible--but he was ready for a fight, raw and furious with himself, and with Castiel, who just _kept being nice_ , who wouldn’t leave Dean the fuck alone so he could lick his wounds in private. 

Sam had walked into the room; he stopped short when he saw the envelope, the shredded check. 

“You know, Cas, I’m real glad you’ve been around. You’ve been a real help and we had a nice time. Some good chats. But--” 

“Dean,” Sam said sharply, and Dean knew that voice, the _take a walk voice_ , _don’t say something you’ll regret_ voice. 

But it didn’t slow Dean down. He ignored Sam entirely, focusing all of his anger at Castiel, who looked close to tears. 

“I don’t know what you want this to mean,” Dean said, gesturing at the check. “But--” 

“I only wanted to help,” said Castiel. “That’s all I meant. Help.” 

“Yeah, well, I don’t need anything else from you, _Mr. Novak_.” He stopped and sneered. “You don’t _own_ me.” 

Castiel looked so stricken Dean thought that he might cry. Just the thought very nearly convinced Dean to take it all back, to beg for forgiveness, to haul Castiel up to bed and make it up to him.

But he hardened himself against the impulse. “I never should have fucking come here,” he said. “This was a mistake.”

Dean could feel Sam’s fury radiating across the room. He started towards the door. 

Castiel had carefully retreated behind a tearless mask. He shook Sam’s hand, invited him to bring Jess to the house any time, told him to drive safe. 

They left. 

Sam had practically dragged Dean to the car, clutching his arm the whole way there. He didn’t talk into their were on the road. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“It was a million bucks, Sam. It was insulting.” 

Sam scoffed and pulled the car over, breaking so fast Dean’s head jerked back. 

“You already crossed that bridge. Or did you forget the half mil in medical costs you just racked up?” He shook his head. “Jesus, Dean. You fucking _asshole_. You know, I practically begged him not to offer you the money. I told him not to bother, that you were too determined to be a martyr. I knew you’d be a dick. But he was so confident. Even if you didn’t take it, he said, you’d just gracefully turn it down. He actually said that. ‘Gracefully turn it down.’” 

Sam took a deep breath. “I know that you’re scared of commitment. And I get that you won’t take the money. But Dean--all you had to do was say no. You didn’t have to rip the guy’s heart out. 

“And you know why you did that? Because you’re scared. You think you’re such a fucking badass, Dean. But all you are is afraid.” 

Dean opened his mouth to speak but there was nothing to say. A hard ball of shame was settling in his stomach. 

They didn’t talk the rest of the drive. 

***

Sam practically threw him out of the car, didn’t even offer to help him with his luggage. Dean shouldered his duffel and picked up the box of belongings he’d accumulated at the house. 

His apartment smelled clean again--Sam, probably. There was a piece of paper on his fridge that read WELCOME HOME DEAN. 

He opened the fridge: plenty of beer. There was pizza in the freezer. 

Excellent. 

He got properly drunk and sifted through the things he’d brought home: a blown glass shell from Grange, a surprisingly touching card from Ethridge. 

A letter from Castiel. 

Sam must've picked it up off the floor and shoved it into Dean’s bag after he'd yelled at Castiel. He didn’t really deserve to read it, honestly--after he’d been such a jerk, Castiel probably regretted whatever he’d said in it. And he almost wanted to burn it, or at least tear it into pieces. Put this whole fucking thing to bed. 

But of course he was going to read it. It was handwritten in blank ink--Dean imagined the pen was a Mont Blanc--on heavy paper that had a watermark. He opened another beer before he started reading it.

_Dear Dean,_

_I have tried very hard to understand what went wrong between us, and now I wonder if I will ever know. I hope I did not doo anything you didn’t want, or make you unhappy in any way._

_Sam says you won’t like the money, but I hope you will take it. This money is to help--not because I think you cannot take care of yourself, or because I think that you want my money, or for any reason other than I want to take care of you, and this is all I can think of giving now that you will no longer talk to me._

_I so wish that you would talk to me._

_There are many things I would like to say to you, but I am choosing here, though it is difficult, not to write my confessions. But I will say that I have always been afraid of love--I have thought of it as volatile, demanding, draining. But spending so much time with you has made me think that perhaps love can be something quiet and comfortable and sustaining._

_I hope that I will hear from you, Dean. I hope that you will change your mind and answer this letter, or call me back, or text me, or--anything._

_I miss you very much, Dean._

_-Castiel_

Dean read the letter three times, then crumpled it into his fist. “I miss you very much, Dean,” he said aloud, and he wanted to sound mocking, but he only sounded sad. He unfolded the note, trying to carefully press any creases out of it, but it still looked sorely abused. 

_I so wish that you would speak to me._

At one point talking to Castiel had been so easy, a perfect kind of back-and-forth that swung from intimate to joking to flirtatious. At one point Dean had indulged the idea of them talking exactly stretched out on some sofa, Dean’s head in Castiel’s lap. 

Now Dean’s chest just felt tight and awful and physically injured, like someone had reached in and squeezed his heart and lungs with a clenching fist. 

“It wasn’t even that long,” he said helplessly, mentally counting the span of weeks he’d spent in that stupid heat room. “It wasn’t even that long.” 

But apparently it was long enough. 

***

He got rehired--Dean was a good worker, no matter how inept he might be in other parts of his life. The work was good, the summer was hot, and after work he sat on a barstool and drifted in a fog of raunchy jokes. 

Sam spent a lot of time with Jess. Dean was actually pretty happy for him, even if she was a walking, talking reminder of the guy Dean wanted back like a missing limb. She was nice, still pretty, smart as a whip. Dean didn’t see them often, and Sam still seemed a little stand-offish, like he was angry but also like he felt sorry for Dean. Dean wanted to say that he knew he’d screwed up, that he was in pain because of it. But instead he pretended to be fine, talked shit about Sam’s impossible height, teased his brother about his new girlfriend, half-heartedly flirted with a waitress. 

He didn’t think about the letter, which he’d carefully hidden between his mattress and box spring, and he didn’t think about Castiel. 

Well. That’s what he told himself. 

He was drinking a little more than was strictly considered healthy, and he was sleeping through most of both Saturday and Sunday, and he had recently announced to his empty apartment that he now hated the ocean. 

So he was fine. 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> stay safe & effect change, everyone!

_Dean_

Sam came to the apartment on a Wednesday. Jess was pulling some kind of nightmare shift--“Is that even legal?” Dean had asked--and Sam had brought beer. 

They were watching some custom car show when Dean worked up the nerve to ask Sam if he’d seen Castiel recently. He asked every now and then, tried to space it out often enough that it wouldn’t seem like too much of a Thing. 

Sam nodded, carefully kept his eyes on the television screen. “Yeah. I told you--Jess and I went up to his house last weekend.” 

Dean cleared his throat. “Oh, right. How’s he doing?” 

“He’s working a lot.” Sam frowned. He scraped at the bottle label and said, very carefully, “I think he misses you.” 

Dean ignored that. “Is he--how’s his work?” 

Sam let his head fall back on the sofa. “I’m sure his work is fine, Dean.”

“You don’t have to be so pissy,” said Dean.

Sam put his beer down on the table. “Why don’t you just text him, Dean? Call him? You ask about him all the time.” 

“I’m just _curious_ , Sam. It’s not like--” 

“Not like what? Like you’re so terrified of your _feelings_ that you’d rather sit alone in a shitty apartment than tell him you’re sorry?” 

Dean sucked in a breath and stood up so fast that Sam cringed a little, Dean was going to hit him. He kind of wanted to. 

“You should leave.” 

“Dean--I’m sorry. I’m sorry. But _come on_. You’re totally in love--” 

“Get. Out.” Dean’s teeth were clenched. 

Dean must’ve looked pretty serious because Sam practically fled the apartment. Dean heard him thundering down the staircase, apologizing to someone he’d nearly knocked over. 

Once he was sure Sam had left the building, Dean bolted to the bathroom and threw up, heaving so hard it felt like his eyes were going to explode. He managed to get puke on his jeans--already filthy--and yanked them off, nearly falling over in the process. He brushed his teeth, then looked in the mirror. 

He was crying. 

Well--his eyes were watering. But once he saw the tears it felt like a dam had broken. He crumpled so quickly he nearly hit his head on the sink. 

He cried like a child, huge sobs that he was terrified the neighbors could hear. He imagined one of them banging down the door in concern, only to find it was just Dean.

Just Dean, in faded boxers and a pair of Castiel’s socks, crying his fucking heart out. 

***

_Castiel_

Castiel wasn’t prepared for life to be so painful without Dean. 

He hadn’t expected any response from the letter, especially after the check-shredding and the horrible things Dean had said--things Castiel sometimes repeated himself in an effort to be angry. 

It wasn’t much use. He’d been angry and offended for maybe two days, and since then he’d just been sad. He’d packed up and driven back to the city. There were more distractions. 

He reached for his phone a hundred times a day. To ask Dean how he was, to tell Dean again how much he hated writing emails, what he wanted for dinner. Every time he remembered right before he unlocked the screen, and his hand dropped back limply. 

Maybe it was Castiel’s fault. Maybe he had pushed too hard, been too honest. He didn’t know. 

There was a lot that Castiel regretted. He wished he hadn’t tried to push the money at Dean. Wished he’d forced Dean to talk to him before he’d left. 

Wished he’d told Dean he loved him.

But he couldn’t go back in time, and this was his life now: glaring at the simmering city from behind glass, swimming laps at the gym, stewing in his regrets. 

***

_Dean_

One night seemed worse than the others. Grange had called earlier that day to check in, to remind Dean to take his temperature daily. 

“I know you don’t miss me, but I sure miss you, Dean,” she’d said. “And Mr. Novak. I miss you both.” 

Dean had almost hung up on her, had barely hissed _goodbye_ before he’d dropped his phone on the coffee table and gone to open up a bottle of something much stronger than beer. But then he’d stopped himself and decided to go for a walk. 

He walked for a long time, longer than he’d walked since he’d first moved to the city and spent a lot of time half-lost, confused as to how a person was supposed to figure out cardinal directions when there were giant fucking buildings in the way. 

Eventually he got on the subway, rode slouched in a seat and watched people get on and off, omegas and alphas with their shopping and their spouses, their kids in flip flops. 

He was barely aware of taking out his phone, of scrolling through Sam’s texts until he found Castiel’s address--Sam had texted it to him a few times in the past few weeks, coupled with things like “just go see him, Dean” and “he’d love to see you.” 

“Okay,” said Dean, taking a deep breath. “Okay.” 

***

_Castiel_

When the doorman explained that someone named Dean Winchester was asking to come up, Castiel nearly swallowed his tongue. 

“Of course,” he said finally. “Thank you, Bertie.” 

He waited at the elevator for Dean--contemplated standing right at the threshold but finally managed to force himself a few feet away. 

This might not be good,” he told himself sternly. “This might not be good. He might just be here--” 

But then Dean was there, right in front of him. 

***

_Dean_

If Dean hadn’t already been painfully aware that he and Castiel led _very different lives_ , the private elevator to his penthouse probably would’ve done the trick. 

The doors opened to Castiel in a navy bathrobe, looking hopeful--and, as soon as he’d taken in Dean’s appearance, very worried. 

“Dean? Are you alright? You look--” 

“It’s, uh--it’s been a while since I ate,” said Dean, reeling into the apartment. He felt like he might collapse right there on the carpet, but Castiel guided him into a chair. “I--” 

“Let me get you some water.” 

When Castiel came back with saltines and a glass of water, Dean felt like he couldn’t trust himself to open his eyes. This wasn’t going the way he’d planned it--he’d imagined falling to his knees, begging Castiel for forgiveness, making a devastatingly eloquent declaration. There would be music, perhaps. Tears. Kissing. 

_Love_. Dean knew that’s what he was dealing with here. He wasn’t nearly as emotionally illiterate as Sam claimed and more importantly, a guy didn’t wear another guy’s socks and cry for any other reason. 

So Dean knew what this was. He just didn’t know to handle it. 

He’d practiced on his way up the elevator: _I love you, Cas_ under his breath. _Hey, Cas. I really screwed up. And I love you_. 

But all of that seemed stupid. This whole thing seemed stupid, actually, because Dean had already screwed it up so badly it was probably permanently screwed, and what was he even doing there.

“Eat, drink,” said Castiel, nudging him gently. “You need to eat.” 

Castiel left for a moment and returned with a sandwich that was far more appetizing than the dry crackers. He stood silently by as Dean ate--he really was hungry, Jesus--and when Dean was finally finished with the sandwich and the three glasses of water, Cas took him by the hand and led him to the master bedroom. 

Holy shit, thought Dean. I don’t even have to say anything. 

But then Castiel started undressing him--and not in a cool, sensual way, but in a “get out of these reeking clothes now, how long were you on the subway” kind of way. And he steered Dean into the bathroom and took off his own robe and navigated them both under shower head--easily the size of a dinner plate--and he washed Dean with a cloth, and scrubbed his hair the right way, with fingertips pressing into his scalp. 

When they were clean and dry and still very naked, Castiel led them to the bed and threw back the covers. 

“Lie down,” he said to Dean. His eyes were warm and Dean felt forgiven and welcomed and safe. “Lie down, and then we’ll talk.” 

***

_Castiel_

In all the ways Castiel had imagined Dean returning, he had never once pictured that he would arrive looking like he’d neither bathed nor slept in a week, smelling nearly as forlorn and scentless has he had when they first met. Ideas up until that moment had enjoyed desperate declarations of love, rapid disrobing, twelve hours of perfect sex, and only minimal awkwardness. 

But now Dean was here, and he looked terrible. 

So Castiel fed him and washed him and took him to bed, where he laid them both down and put his hand on Dean’s chest. 

“I think you should sleep,” he said. It wasn’t what he wanted to say--he wanted to say _tell me why you’re here, tell me what took you so long, do you love me, are we in love?_

But stronger than the need to ask was the need to care. So he held Dean’s eyes until they drifted closed, and then they slept alongside each other. 

***

_Dean_

Dean woke up blessedly free of the headache that had plagued him for the past three days. Without even opening eyes he knew exactly where he was, in Castiel’s blue-and-white bedroom, between perfect sheets; he could breathe in the smell his alpha _\--his_ _alpha_ , lying beside him, breathing like he was still asleep. And outside the window, Dean knew, it was still night: the city lights were blinking, the clouds were faintly illuminated, the sky was a deep navy. 

It seemed Castiel had forgiven him--Dean remembered the sandwich, the glasses of water, a perfect shower. 

But there was still so much to say. Dean opened his eyes and rolled onto his side--he was excited and terrified, like it was weird, high-stakes Christmas. 

“Cas? Cas, wake up.”

Castiel’s eyes blinked open slowly; first his expression was alert and confused, but it faded to softness. “Dean,” he said softly. “How are you?” 

Dean hadn’t meant to grin--this seemed like a serious time--but he couldn’t help it. “I feel amazing.” 

“Oh, good. I’m very glad. What time--” 

“I’m in love with you.” 

Castiel blinked. Dean almost swore--it had jumped out, and he’d ruined it, it was sloppy and--and he’d already said it, no taking it back now. He took a breath and tried again. 

“I’m in love with you, Cas. I love you. I, Dean Winchester--” 

Castiel shut him up with a hard kiss. When he pulled back they were both breathless. “Dean,” said Castiel. He sounded awed. “Dean. I thought--” 

“Gonna need you to say it back, Cas,” said Dean, feeling a little choked, a little panicky. He felt more afraid than he’d realized--was he about to _cry?_ Maybe this was stupid; hadn’t they been on one date? And there was the matter of the check--who the hell charged in with ‘I love you’ after--

“Oh, Dean,” said Castiel, and he was grinning, and Dean relaxed a little. “I love you, Dean. So much. So very much.” 

Dean smiled back and then they were kissing, a sort of happy, relieved, but also very ready to have sex kissing. And Castiel was really such a good kisser, attentive and versatile and perfectly focused. He traced his tongue along Dean’s ear; moved down to suck _hard_ on Dean’s neck, and bit softly at his shoulder. Dean heard himself making nonsense noises, breathy hums--he held Castiel to him as tightly as he could, until he could feel every movement of his lean torso.

When Castiel started working his hands down Dean’s body, stopping to take a firm hold of his ass, Dean let out a groan that felt like it came from his feet. “Oh my god,” groaned Dean. “You are absolutely gonna fuck me.” 

Castiel’s smile was sharp. “If you want me to, yes.” But his tone indicated that he knew exactly how much Dean wanted it, how much he very specifically wanted not just any dick, but Castiel’s dick in his ass. 

Dean felt a little bit like he was overheating. “You’re--you’re, uh, really hot in sex mode,” he said. He loosed his grip a little, gave Castiel room to move.

“‘Sex mode’?”

“Uh, yeah, like--you know, you’re all ‘I’m gonna fuck you so hard’--” 

Castiel smiled. “I am going to fuck you, Dean,” he whispered it right in Dean’s ear. “Very hard, if you ask for it.” 

“Just proving my point,” said Dean, his voice a little shaky. Castiel was letting a finger drift closer to Dean’s hole. 

“Please, Castiel.” Dean was suddenly desperate, overwhelmed with urgency. “I’ve waited--just, we don’t need to drag it out, okay? We can do that later. Because I need--” Dean moved so his mouth was right at Castiel’s ear, so he could just whisper: “I need you inside of me, Cas.” 

Castiel jerked and sucked in a breath--it was all very satisfying. His hand drifted up and down Dean’s sides; they kissed again, slowly, deeply. And then Castiel said, “I’ve waited too, Dean. Turn over.” 

***

_Castiel_

Dean rolled over obediently. Castiel watched him closely; he was trying to calm himself down, to negotiate between the parts of him that wanted to immediately and thoroughly make Dean his, and the parts that wanted this first time to be as close to perfect as it could be. 

“Do you want to be knotted, Dean?” 

Dean nodded his head vigorously. “God, Cas. Yeah, I do.” 

“I’ll do my best,” said Castiel, wrapping a hand around the base of his cock even though he knew full well it was far too early. “But knots can unpredictable. What I _can_ promise you, Dean, is an exceptionally good fucking.” 

“That is nothing but arrogance--and it is such a fucking turn-on,” said Dean. 

Castiel smiled and slid one expert finger into Dean’s ass; Dean whined, high and pitchy. “I assure you that my arrogance is well-founded.” 

Dean tightened around the finger and made a noise of frustration. “Thought you were gonna fuck me, Cas.” 

Castiel hummed and withdrew his finger, then lined the head of his cock up with Dean’s entrance. He started to push in slowly. “Tell me if there’s any discomfort,” Castiel whispered. He worked his way in and ran his hands over Dean’s body: the plane of his back, the curving plush of his ass. 

Castiel was nearly halfway in now, Dean’s heat and wet enveloping him perfectly.

Dean’s body seemed to melt into the mattress as Castiel slid in deeper and deeper. 

“You feel perfect, Dean,” said Castiel, still moving slowly and deliberately. He dragged his hands down Dean’s back. 

Dean’s voice was muffled when he spoke. “Fuck, Cas--” 

“What, Dean? What do you need me to do?” 

“ _Faster_ , Cas,” said Dean. He sounded a little desperate. “More--” 

Castiel withdrew completely and slammed into Dean, hitting home so hard that Dean practically keened. He kept going, hard and fast, one hand on Dean’s tanned shoulder and the other around his hip, pounding and pounding while Dean pushed out involuntary moans. 

“Ah, fuck,” said Dean. “Oh, fuck, fuck-- _fuuuuuck_ \--” 

After a few minutes he jerked Dean upright to press them front to back. They were both sweating and panting. “Is this what you wanted?” asked Cas, fucking Dean hard but holding him gently, so gently, around the throat. 

“ _Yes_ ,” hissed Dean, closing his eyes, pressing the back of his head to Castiel's chest. His lips were parted, his nipples hard. Castiel looked down at his cock; it looked painfully hard. He lowered Dean to the bed and slowed his movements. 

“Dammit, Cas,” said Dean, squirming a little. “Don’t stop.” He felt incredible--wet and impossibly hot, better even that Castiel had dreamed. 

“No, Dean,” said Castiel, his voice lower, more gravelly, than ever before. “No, I won't stop.” 

Castiel curved his hands curved around Dean’s hips; he reached around to slowly, lazily stroke Dean’s weeping cock, hard and smooth. As Castiel felt his own climax near, he pushed harder into Dean, stroked him more firmly, faster. 

“Oh my god,” breathed Dean. “You--oh--” 

Dean came in a judder of hips and deep, gasping breaths, all of his body going rigid for a long moment before he relaxed entirely. Castiel was as deep as he could get into Dean; he felt the hot, building throb of his knot, the hungry clench of Dean’s hole. Castiel closed his eyes and took a breath. “Dean? Are you alright?” 

Dean nodded. “I can’t-- _talk_ \--Jesus _fucking_ Christ--” 

“Is it good?” 

“‘Is it good’?” Dean repeated, sounding a little drunk. “Cas, it’s--why didn’t anyone tell me--is good,” he slurred. 

Castiel smiled and pressed his fingertips into Dean’s hipbones with the intention to bruise--he wanted to see the shadowy marks the next day, when the sun was up and Dean was still there in his bed. 

“I’m going to come, Dean,” breathed Castiel, staring at a fixed point between Dean’s shoulder blades. “I’m going to come, and then I’m going to fill you up with my knot.” 

Dean groaned and flexed his hips. “Yes, c’mon, Cas--” 

“ _Dean_ ,” Castiel whispered fiercely, and then he came--endlessly, it felt like--and propped himself up on trembling arms to watched his knot fill and stretch Dean’s red hole.

Through it all Dean moaned like a porn star, wriggled his ass and forcing Castiel to hold him still lest he hurt himself. Finally Castiel turned them gently onto their sides, pressing kisses to the nape of Dean’s neck, moving so that he was entirely flush with Dean’s damp, naked body.

***

_Dean_

They fell asleep knotted together. Dean woke up to the strangely intimate feeling of Castiel withdrawing from him. For a moment he felt a little panicked--would Castiel leave, now?--but Castiel only resettled himself, an arm around Dean’s waist, his face tucked against Dean’s neck. 

It seemed like Castiel fell back to sleep--his breath was even and warm on Dean’s back, and his body was limp--but Dean stayed awake, staring out of Castiel’s giant bedroom windows, looking at a blue morning sky and high, wispy clouds. He felt like he was floating in happiness, a warm ocean of Castiel and only Castiel. 

_He loves me_ , he kept thinking, and he couldn’t stop himself from smiling, no matter how idiotic he felt. _He loves me_. 

Castiel would wake up eventually, of course. Dean imagined they would have sex again--maybe blowjobs?--and then they would stand in the spray of that gigantic shower head. Castiel would be naked and wet again. 

And they would eat--Dean would take him to a diner, which Castiel would endure because _he loved Dean_ , and then they would walk around, and tell each other what they had been doing since they stopped talking, and Dean would tell him what building he was working on, and eventually Dean would send Sam some kind of text like, _me and cas are boyfriends now. shut up_. 

Or something. 

Dean knew the feeling he had was almost recklessly optimistic--what if Castiel refused to go to a diner? What if he wanted Dean to quit his job, to live as some kind of bizarre kept man, to be at his beck and call? What if they only had really good sex once, and after that it was terrible? What if--

But Castiel was warm against his back, and last night he had been tender and worried and so, so happy to see Dean. 

He had said he loved him. _So much_ , he had said. His eyes had practically glowed with it.

It had all been so good that now, even in the daylight--anything seemed possible. 


End file.
